Harry Potter and the Time of Transition
by kittyrunner
Summary: Still reeling from previous events, Harry Potter enters his sixth year under the weight of his many burdens, while Dumbledore, his friends, and the rest of the Order struggle to protect him. AUPreHBP
1. Unwanted Routines

**Harry Potter and the Time of Transition**

****

**By**

**Kittyrunner**

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

****

**Disclaimer:  **All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of J. K. Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

**A/N:** This is my first fanfic, so I am entirely new to this sort of thing. I am actually a little nervous about posting this, and I've read it and revised it over a dozen times to make sure it sounds all right for posting. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it:: crosses fingers desperately:

**Chapter 1**

**_Unwanted Routines_**

It was one of those summer nights where the air was so humid that it felt like liquid. In the stillness of the night it blanketed everything in sight with its muggy thickness, like an oppressive weight bearing down upon the world in its slumber. No breeze stirred the leaves of the branches or rippled the grasses of the perfect, tidy lawns. There were no animals hunting in the night or foraging for food. It almost seemed as though all life were hiding in their burrows, dens, and nests. Even the crickets and katydids seemed to be taking the night off, their chirps absent to all ears.

Yet at Number 4, Privet Drive, all was not still. A boy lay tossing and turning in his bed, tormented by dreams, dreams that could freeze the blood and chill the bones of any normal person. But this boy was not exactly normal. He was a wizard, like his parents, and also like his parents had, he attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he learned to enhance his magical power and put it to good use. Harry Potter would have very much liked to share his knowledge of magic with his parents and learn more about his magical heritage, but unfortunately his parents had died when he was only a baby, murdered by the evil wizard, Lord Voldemort, and he never had a chance to talk to them.

Therefore, since he was an orphan, this boy had to spend his summer breaks, between school terms at Hogwarts, with the only living relatives he had left---the Dursleys.

Having no magical blood within them, the Dursleys despised everything unusual or out of the ordinary, which most definitely involved anything pertaining to magic. Because of his magical heritage, Harry was quite often the source of his aunt and uncle's and cousin's animosity. Luckily for Harry, though, he spent only two months of the year with them, and the rest of the time was spent with his friends at Hogwarts, learning about magic, playing Quidditch on broomsticks, and having wild adventures.

Yet Harry's magical life was not all fun and games. Lord Voldemort was still out there, and Harry was his prime target, as he was the only person ever to have survived the Killing Curse, the same curse that stole away his parents' lives. Thus, he was marked forever as Voldemort's rival according to a cryptic prophecy made when Harry was a little baby. Harry had had numerous encounters with Voldemort, and he somehow always evaded death, however narrowly. In his fourth year at Hogwarts, Harry had had a very traumatic experience with Voldemort, and even though he kept his own life, a fellow schoolmate, Cedric Diggory, had died by Voldemort's hand. And even though that experience was bad enough, Harry's encounter in his fifth year was even worse, because his very own godfather, Sirius Black, had lost his life in the effort to protect Harry.

And Harry had never fully forgiven himself for that.

It was after that terrible ordeal that Harry vowed that he would destroy Lord Voldemort himself. And the nightmares Harry experienced nearly every night fueled his determination to defeat the Dark Lord.

_3:47 am_

The stillness was shattered when he awoke in the night with a startled gasp, which was abruptly cut off by a slippery hand frantically clamping over his mouth. Breathing heavily, he slid his sweaty palm upward in the dark to settle on the source of his distress, an oddly shaped mark on his forehead. This mark was currently radiating with heat, and torrents of pain were rapidly undulating to the rest of his skull, sending flashes of pain-induced lights over his eyelids and enveloping him with waves of dizziness, which threatened to topple him off of the bed.

Yet Harry did not panic or cry. He did not call for help or take any pain medication. He did not do anything but sit there patiently because, unknown to most, this was a common occurrence for him, one that frequented him nearly every night. It had now become a routine that could not be escaped and therefore had to be accepted, he reasoned. Tears and self-pity were not only pointless, but childish to him, and this young man had grown up far too quickly to allow himself the liberty of behaving in such ways.

With his one hand firmly pressed against his scar, and the other hand desperately clenching and unclenching a handful of the bed sheet beside him, Harry Potter steadied himself and muttered through gritted teeth, " One one-thousand……..two one-thousand…….three one-thousand….." and all the way up to " fifteen one-thousand" until the pain gradually receded.

With a soft sigh of relief, Harry Potter lowered his hand from his face, and relaxed his grip on the sheets. And even before his slumping body sank back onto the lumpy bed, he was already asleep.

Approximately two hours later, as morning's first light began to creep through the slitted openings of the shutters and lay in hot parallel bars over the room, Harry Potter awoke. Slowly raising himself off of the mattress, he glared at the traitorous sun through the window, whole-heartedly wishing that it would have remained hidden beneath the horizon for a few hours more in order to grant him some extra much-needed sleep.

Sleep was rare for him. His constant nightmares and scar pains were beginning to take its toll on Harry, as evidenced by his ivory skin, stretched pale and taut over the bones of his face. His twin, emerald eyes which used to contain such spark and liveliness, now had darkened and dulled over, plagued by the nightmares and visions neither boy nor man should be allowed to glimpse.

Yet despite these things, Harry survived and he forced himself to get up every morning and just to take things one day at a time, and always to remember that there was hope in the next day. This promise of better days to come was the only thing keeping him from falling into pieces, and he knew it. He had to be strong. He had to be a man. He had to be like his father. He was done growing up and he wasn't a child anymore.

Harry told himself this every day, this monotonous mantra within his mind that never let him forget that he had to be strong. And Harry whispered it to himself now as he recalled the vision of the night before, the sobbing woman begging for her life, the child begging for his father, the father still and silent on the floor, his blood blossoming out from beneath him, proof of his defeat. Then, the last thing Harry saw before he awoke was an oppressive shadow beginning to fall upon the helpless, unprotected child, a promise of his doom to come.

Yet Harry couldn't recall their faces. During the past month, as his dreams began to increase in frequency, the number of victims had increased in such a way that the faces were indistinguishable. Even so, emotionally, he knew he was standing on a pedestal, and he couldn't help but feel bad about their deaths.

It reminded Harry so much of his own terrible past that it took his breath away, and he couldn't help but feel his eyes watering against his will…..

_No! I can't do this anymore. I will not! I am strong. I am not a child. I won't cry. Tears are useless. They won't bring those people back. They won't bring my parents back. They won't bring Cedric back. They won't bring Sirius back! I will not cry!_

Over and over, he repeated those words within his mind, a steady prayer that he forced himself to heed. Gradually, the images of Voldemort's victims faded away along with their pleading cries.

There was silence all around him and he allowed the warmth of the sun's beams to dry the beads of sweat that had broken out upon his forehead. He took a deep, steady breath and inhaled the hot summer air leaking in through the window. With a last square of his shoulders and an optimistic tilt of his chin, he finally relaxed. There. He was in control now. He almost let his emotions overpower him. He couldn't afford to brood upon the nightmares anym—

"_Boy!_ _Get your lazy bottom out of that bed and into the kitchen right this instant!"_

The voice cracked through the house like a whip and Harry started. His personal reassurances were interrupted by his uncle calling him down to breakfast. He wheeled around and made his way down the stairs immediately, hoping that things wouldn't become too ugly. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he realized that he was already too late for that.


	2. The Fallen

****

**Disclaimer: **All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of J. K. Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

**A/N:** Well, I finally have chapter 2 up, and chapter 3 is over halfway done. I'm still working on that one, though. Enjoy!

Chapter 2

_The Fallen_

Uncle Vernon was standing at the bottom of the staircase, his arms crossed stiffly over his massive chest. His lip was curled in an unmistakable expression of disgust, and his graying mustache rippled unpleasantly each time that he exhaled sharply out of his over-sized, flared nostrils. As his small, beady eyes glared at Harry, his round face seemed to turn an even darker shade of red than it already was. He seemed to be too furious for words. Instead, he had puffed out his chest so much in his effort to intimidate Harry, that a couple of his buttons had come undone on his gray, tweed work suit.

Yet Harry maintained his composure, and kept looking straight into his uncle's eyes. As daunting as his uncle's fuming visage was, Harry's eyes couldn't help but travel to the kitchen, where his aunt stood framed against the doorway.

Even though her blonde hair was in rollers and she was dressed only in a fluffy, white bathrobe, Petunia Dursley looked like a very stern and imposing woman. Her thin lips were formed into a firm frown and her pale, steely eyes were narrowed accusingly at Harry. In her petite, long-fingered hand was a wooden spoon, which she tapped dangerously into her opposite palm.

A prickle of trepidation traveled swiftly up Harry's spine. _Aunt Petunia wasn't going to beat him, was she?_

Harry's apprehensions were driven momentarily out of his head as his aunt's icy voice punctured the silence. "We heard you last night," she said simply. _"Explain yourself."_

Harry gulped self-consciously. So he had cried out after all last night. He had to be more careful. He was beginning to lose control. He cast his eyes downward for a moment, considering how best to answer his aunt. It was best to reveal as little information as possible, yet not appear to be withholding too much. He couldn't mention the content of his dreams. That would only make him sound suspicious and dangerous to the Dursleys. _But then again, _Harry mused, _I am already suspicious and dangerous to the Dursleys. How best to satisfy them?_

"_Well?"_ Uncle Vernon asked delicately. He had joined his wife at the kitchen entrance, and they were both now glaring down at Harry, their eyes flashing furiously.

Pushing his rounded glasses further up the bridge of his nose, Harry met their gaze firmly. He was simply too tired to cook up any excuses or fabrications, so he decided to settle with the plain and simple truth. "I had a dream."

He braced himself for the verbal onslaught of taunts, accusations, inquiries, and biting remarks that he knew were coming, but instead his aunt simply sighed and said awkwardly, "Well, try and keep the volume down from now on." And with that, she turned around and walked slowly into the kitchen, her shoulders stooping slightly as if she had suddenly aged a great deal.

Harry could feel his jaw drop down in shock. That was the mildest reprimand he had ever received from his aunt! Was she finally experiencing a change of heart? But Harry's hopes were immediately dashed when his uncle's deep, rough voice washed over his ears.

"Now, boy, I know that your aunt may be taking those empty threats of those freaks of yours a bit too seriously, but mark my words, you had better show a lot more self-restraint during the night, or else!"

Harry was sorely tempted to call out, _"Or else what?"_ at his uncle's retreating back, but he decided not to push it. It was two weeks into his summer vacation, and so far, the Dursleys were treating him pretty fairly….or at least more fairly than they had the previous 14 years. They didn't force him to do chores all day as they used to, and they didn't starve him as bad as they had during the former years either. In fact, they hardly spoke to Harry at all, which Harry rather enjoyed. Being ignored was somewhat of a blessing compared to all of the unwanted attention he'd receive if he was at Hogwarts. And all of the letters he sent to Ron, Hermione, or the Order members contained assurances that he wasn't being mistreated, and that he was fine. The last thing he wanted was a huge squad of fully-trained witches and wizards barging into the Dursley's house just to see if he, Harry, was all right.

All Harry wanted and _needed_, he reasoned, was to be left alone.

* * *

Harry spent most of his days in his room, reading his school textbooks, writing in his journal, stroking Hedwig, or simply sitting on his bed staring off into space. He found peace within his own company, and he almost constantly found himself thinking of Voldemort and his followers, what they were plotting next, and most importantly, how he, Harry, would find a way to stop them.

His thick writing journal was already halfway full of vivid descriptions of his many nightmares during the night. He wasn't sure what else he should do with them. In each of his dreams so far, all of the victims were dead by the time Harry awoke, so there was really no point in contacting Dumbledore or the Order.

He was always tired, yet he was too afraid to sleep. Then the dreams came…every single night. Sometimes, an afternoon nap would give him a tiny little boost that would help him get through the evening and night hours, but for the most part, he only slept two or three hours of sporadic, interrupted sleep each night.

Despite this, he at least didn't have to worry about the sound of Dudley's snoring keeping him up anymore. Dudley was currently at a "prestigious" boxing camp, as Uncle Vernon called it. Harry didn't know how bludgeoning people in the head with cushioned fists could possibly be called "prestigious," but he wasn't one to complain. Anything that kept Dudley out of his way for two weeks was simply too good to be true.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, on the other hand, noticeably missed their only child. At meals, Petunia would often recreate Dudley's favorite entrees, and then start weeping morosely that her baby Duddykins wasn't there to enjoy them. Vernon, meanwhile, would comment every evening on how quiet and empty the house seemed to be without the television set turned on. "Things you always take for granted," he would say.

"Boy," he said sharply, and Harry looked up from his barely-touched oatmeal to meet the hard, narrowed eyes of his uncle. "Since Dudders is away working hard at his boxing camp, I am expecting you to take over all of his household chores."

Harry snorted. He didn't think Dudley had ever done a single chore in all his life. Even if he had been told to do something, he would simply throw a tantrum until Mr. or Mrs. Dursley did the chore themselves. He nodded his head in acquiescence anyways. He didn't care about standing up to the Dursleys anymore.

Vernon Dursley's mouth stood ajar in apparent shock over his nephew's immediate submission. He had obviously anticipated for Harry to put up a bit of a fight and he had even rehearsed a few good threats to shoot at Harry had he refused to obey.

"What do you want me to do? Can I start now?" Harry asked. He was looking forward to having something to keep him busy. Doing chores might help him keep his mind off of other things, like the prophecy or Sirius.

_Sirius_. Harry swallowed thickly. He had thought of the name again and he quickly pushed it to the back of his mind. _I can't think about him! My emotions make me weak! How else did I allow Voldemort access to my mind? If I wasn't so damn emotional, I wouldn't have gone running to the Department of Mysteries, and Sirius wouldn't have…_

Harry's thoughts were driven out of his mind by his uncle's droning voice. "…scrub and polish the car, mow the lawn, trim the barberry bushes, and wash the windows. Do you have anything to add, Petunia dear?"

His aunt shook her head, a troubled look flashing across her features briefly, before she stood up to clear the dishes away.

* * *

Harry's back ached fiercely as he bent over his aunt's barberry bushes.  
The sharp spines along the plant's stem scratched his hands as his thin fingers parted the maroon leaves. He hadn't thought of asking for gloves, but he could hardly feel the thorns anyways. His fingers seemed to be tingling all morning and he was having a hard time gripping the plastic handle of the shears. He kept taking frequent breaks to rub his hand vigorously over his prickling scar.

He was used to it throbbing at any time during the day. He didn't really worry about it, unless it was connected to a dream or vision. He couldn't even recall a single day during the past two weeks where his scar hadn't hurt at least once. With the entire wizarding world now aware of Voldemort's return, it seemed entirely reasonable for Harry's scar to be aching. _One of the quirks for being "The Boy Who Lived," _Harry thought wryly as he clumsily plucked a thorn from his knuckle.

The sun's scorching rays were beating down on his head. Beads of sweat were trickling down the sides of his face and into his eyes as well. Harry took off his glasses and hastily scrubbed at his eyelids, but it didn't help much. As he replaced his glasses on his face, a sudden bout of dizziness overcame him and he was forced to lean backwards until he was lying down on the grass behind him. He felt a surge of something hot and bitter-tasting creep up his throat and he swiftly turned over to vomit. Only a few drops of a searing, foul liquid dripped from his cracked lips onto the grass. Panting, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and pushed himself off of the ground.

He staggered over to the garage where Uncle Vernon kept his ladder. Harry was pretty sure that the last time his uncle used a ladder, he, Harry, had ended up with bars fastened securely onto his window. He suddenly smiled. Well, not _too_ securely. Fred, George, and Ron Weasley had ended up knocking the bars off with ease. His smile faltered as another wave of nausea overcame him. Harry quickly dashed outside and dropped down to his knees besides an agapanthus bush. He dry-heaved for a while, feeling a hot trickle of sweat flow down his spine. Once again, he couldn't bring up anything besides a couple drops of bile. His eyes watered and his nose burned as he took a couple of great gasping breaths. He knelt there in the grass for a time, not trusting his shaking legs to support himself quite yet, not daring to move until his breathing had slowed and the sweat on his face and back had dried off a bit in the light July breeze.

Harry sighed heavily. He had just thrown up twice in the past twenty minutes. _What was wrong with him? _

* * *

The smooth, shiny surface of the glass window pane was squeaking loudly with each lazy swipe of the rag. Harry continued wiping the window, heedless of the fact that it was as clean as it could possibly be. He felt a strange and annoying buzzing sensation in his temples and his ears were ringing loudly with a single high-pitched note. He twisted a corner of the rag into his right ear as a feeble attempt to eliminate the ringing sound. It didn't work. He shifted his feet on the wooden ladder rung and heard an ominous creaking noise as a result. The ladder was so old that it seemed as though it was going to collapse from under him at any moment. He was surprised that it hadn't broken under Uncle Vernon's bulky figure, but then speculated that his uncle's weight must have merely weakened the wood so that he, Harry would risk falling off. Funny how things like that seemed to work out.

He let his thoughts wander as he continued wiping the rag over his pale reflection in the window. He wondered what Ron and Hermione were doing at home with their families, not needing to worry about the prophecy or about scar pains or about having to kill Voldemort in order to save the wizarding world. His eyes started to water as he thought about how badly he wanted to write to Sirius, how he wanted to tell him about what he was supposed to do, and how he didn't think that he could live up to the standards that Dumbledore and everyone else were expecting him to live up to. A single tear slid down the side of his nose and he wiped roughly at it with his sleeve.

"Stop that," he whispered to himself. He couldn't afford to be emotional. It could get him into trouble!

As if on command, Harry's scar began to prickle and the buzzing in his temples increased. The dirty washrag dropped from Harry's quaking fingers as he clapped his hand over his scar. The ladder swayed threateningly, and Harry shifted his other hand's grip on the rough wood of a rung. Just as the ladder's movements began to settle, Harry's scar positively exploded and he reeled again, forgetting where he was, both hands now clutching his face.

He didn't care that he was on a roughly swaying ladder, nor did he care that he was twenty feet from the ground. All he wanted to do was somehow stifle the blinding, searing pain that was coursing throughout his head.

The next thing he knew was the sensation of falling backwards. He cried out once. A sudden sharp pain hit his body all over, and then he felt nothing at all.

* * *

**A/N:** Hoped you liked it! Please review if you can! I really appreciate any comments or constructive criticism. Thanks!Kittyrunner 


	3. Mystery Visitor

**Disclaimer:** All characters, names, places, et cetera are entirely the creation of J.K. Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

**A/N:** Well, I finally have the third chapter up! I'm sorry about the long wait; I spent the past several months studying and touring around Europe, so I didn't have much time to write...I saw a lot of really cool things, though! Well, I hope you enjoy this chapter; I've already started writing the next one!

* * *

**Harry Potter and the Time of Transition**

Chapter 3 

_Mystery Visitor_

* * *

His ears were buzzing and throbbing terribly when Harry regained consciousness. He noticed all too soon that his scar hurt too. He groaned loudly and tried to move his head a little. That was a mistake. 

Shooting pain bolted down his neck and across the base of his skull, causing his vision to swim even more wildly than it already was. Vaguely, he wondered where his glasses were and his searching fingers combed the grass and earth around him with no luck. As he attempted to rub his eyes, he realized that his glasses were already perched upon his face.

His awareness slowly reached him as he lay back, staring up at the darkening sky. _Why was he outside?_ He felt heavy, as though his body was made of unyielding stone instead of flesh. Mobility was very limited; his body just didn't want to obey him. A prickling of pins and needles tingled throughout his limbs and torso, making Harry wonder if he was lying on a bed of nails. It wasn't until he managed to shift his right leg a couple of inches that he realized he was sprawled out in his aunt's garden and his right leg was tangled in the barberry bushes. Their inch-long, ruby thorns were embedded along his lower leg. He grimaced as he could feel each and every one of them throb wickedly beneath his skin.

It seemed that as soon as one body part began to hurt, the rest of him just had to join in. Pain was blossoming everywhere now: his left wrist, his right palm, his back. Even his gut roiled horribly and he wondered if he was going to be sick. As he tried to move his left leg, he felt a sharp pain lance down his shin. He grimaced and then carefully turned his head to the side, trying to get a further bearing of his surroundings.

The moon was out now and with its pale, waxy glare, he could see the illumination of metal to his right. There lay his uncle's ladder and all too soon it dawned on Harry that he had fallen off while cleaning the windows. He groaned again, swallowing down an urge to vomit. A chill swept through him as the air around him grew cooler. The only thought that prevailed in his foggy head was that he had to get in the house….somehow.

* * *

Harry's left shin was broken. This was the first new thing he learned, and as he lay gasping in the grass, he sorely regretted trying to walk on it. So instead he resorted to half-crawling, half-pulling himself to the back door. His leaden body protested every movement, his muscles aching and burning. Inch by inch, he was slowly approaching the door. 

It was tedious work. His left wrist was swollen and tender and his right hand and leg were bleeding. His left leg was useless. Every movement was agony for it and it was impossible to keep it completely still as he dragged himself through the grass on his belly. Sweat coated his brow and dribbled down his spine, making him feel as though he was this dirty, slimy thing that had crawled out from beneath a rock and slithered its pitiful existence across the lawn.

He gritted his teeth as he tore up large clumps of grass in his effort to close the distance to the house. Frustration and desperation flooded him. He knew he was in bad shape. _Focus Harry_, he told himself. _Hand over hand, hand over hand. Rest. Repeat_.

His mind wandered. He could imagine what people would think of him, Harry Potter, the savior of the wizarding world, the only possible vanquisher of the Dark Lord, now crawling through a muggle backyard, lacking the strength to even stand. _Pathetic._

He wondered why no one had come for him yet. Where were the Dursleys? Mrs. Figg? Remus Lupin? Dumbledore? If members of the Order had been keeping such a close eye on him, where were they now, when he needed them the most? But then again, he reasoned, they weren't there for him when he was in danger last summer, when those dementors surrounded him, when they were close enough for him to smell their rotten, smelly breath, when he had to resort to magic to save both himself and his cousin.

No, he was on his own. In the end, he was always on his own. His friends and adults could only protect him to a certain extent, but that was all in the past. A pat on the back and a word of encouragement along the way, but in the end he was always left to his own means. He would face whatever threat awaited him head-on, without assistance. What good would come if he asked for help anymore? Who would answer? Many would try, of course: Ron and Hermione, the rest of the Weasleys, the Order and Dumbledore….Who would die for him next?

_No one will_, he answered himself. _Because I won't let them!_

His head spun, and his thoughts wandered to Sirius. He didn't care what Dumbledore said; it was entirely _his fault_ that Sirius died. _If I hadn't gone to the Ministry…if I had stayed at Hogwarts_…

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by the feel of rough concrete against his fingertips. At last, he had reached the back stoop. A weak smile graced his face as he looked up at the door looming over him. The kitchen light had been left on. Its pale yellow glow streamed through the screen and looked like reflected gold at the end of an excruciatingly long treasure hunt. Harry sighed in relief and then swayed into unconsciousness once more.

* * *

"_Harry…Harry," a hoarse voice called out._

"_I'm right here," Harry said. Everything was misted. He couldn't see anything beyond a few feet in front of him._

"_Come and find me…"_

_Harry took a few steps forward. The mist grew thicker. It swirled around him. He held his hands out in front of him, trying to feel any obstacles in his way._

"_Where are you?" Harry cried, his words echoing._

"_You know," the strange voice replied, and the mist was suddenly all gone. He was standing on a dais. An archway with a fluttering black veil was directly in front of him._

"_Come find me…" the voice said again._

Harry jerked awake. He was slumped awkwardly against the banister inside the house. Streaks of blood were visible from the rug in front of the door, and leading all the way up the steps to Harry's current position. His body throbbed steadily though it was nothing compared to the throbbing in his heart.

"Sirius," he whispered, as he slowly pulled himself hand over hand up the stairs. He had to get to his room. He needed to rest…and hopefully heal.

The blood on his hands made gripping the railing very difficult, his hands slipping quite frequently. The awkward position of his broken leg slowed Harry down even more. He was sure that he wouldn't get up again if he slipped all the way to the bottom of the stairs. He would just lay there until the Dursleys woke up. Harry could picture his aunt screaming in disgust, his uncle's face reddening in fury, and his cousin laughing with glee. Then he remembered that his cousin was still at boxing camp and he wouldn't be returning for two more days yet. He would have smiled if his lungs weren't searing with every breath he took.

Trying to keep his mind off the pain, Harry swept his eyes around the room_. Look at the mess I've made_, Harry thought, as he glanced at the sporadic blood trail on his aunt's white, pristine carpeting. _I'm dead…I'm dead_.

He continued to pull himself up the stairs, though. _I'll clean up tomorrow morning, after I sleep_. He tasted blood in his mouth and tried to swallow it down. As he approached the top of the stairs, he looked up at the landing and saw the family portraits hanging evenly on the wall. Dudley comprised of most of them, his bulky figure seemed to be squeezed between the picture frames: Dudley as a baby, Dudley on his first day at school, Dudley's 13th birthday, Dudley holding a boxing trophy…Harry's eyes slid dazedly over each and every one of them, though he eventually fixed his gaze on the boxing one. He could have sworn that Dudley's grinning face had morphed into that of a venomous smirk.

As he continued to squint at the photo, Dudley's eyes flicked down to Harry's and his whole face seemed to alight with triumph. Harry froze in confused astonishment as his cousin tilted his piggy face upward, mouth gaping, and with his chest and shoulders heaving heartily.

His cousin's picture was laughing at him.

* * *

Harry could not recall how he had managed to pull himself down the hallway, into his room, and onto his bed, but the next time he awoke, he was in that exact location. He knew precisely where he was because of the familiar sensation of a spring digging into his ribcage. _Stupid mattress_, he thought, before he fell back into an uncomfortable slumber.

* * *

­Red. That's all he could see. It was creeping up on him, touching him, burning him. It was pressing in on his eyelids, trying to get inward, igniting his eyes, his brain. He couldn't let it get him. He couldn't be consumed by it. 

He awoke with a start. Pain was sprouting all over his body, though it seemed to feel sharpest at his leg. He glanced down with bleary eyes and saw that his leg was sticking out at an odd angle. Reaching down with a trembling hand, he tried to push his leg into a more natural position; however, as soon as his fingers touched his hot skin, a spasm of pain shot down his leg. He withdrew his hand. Dried blood was crusted all over him, and his sheet was sticking to the cuts and scratches that crisscrossed the length of his legs. He sank back onto his mattress, groaning as every single muscle in his back seemed to protest the movement.

* * *

"Harry? Harry." 

A gentle, yet insistent voice was penetrating the thick darkness. Harry tried to push it away, tried to embrace the peaceful oblivion of sleep once more, but he could not find the strength to pull away from that nagging tone. His eyelids flickered slightly.

"Can you hear me, Harry?" _That voice_, Harry thought. _It doesn't belong to the Dursleys_. A small frown shadowed his features as he tried to turn his head to the source of the sound. His eyelids felt sticky, as though they were glued shut, and his throat felt as though it had been coated with a hefty dose of Skele-Gro. A soft, airy moan escaped his lips and he grimaced at the red hot pain that licked up his esophagus. He wouldn't be surprised if flames came out of his mouth.

"How long has he been in this state?" Harry relaxed, glad that the question wasn't directed at him.

He heard a spluttering noise, like a car that would not start. "How are we supposed to—how can you expect us to babysit him twenty-four hours a day!"

"We don't know how long Harry has been like this. We didn't even know that he _was_ like this," Harry heard his Aunt Petunia say defensively. "He has taken to shutting himself into his room. I told Vernon to leave him be."

_How long have I been laying here?_ Harry wondered as his back ached fiercely. Come to think of it, his whole body hurt. He tried to think hard about everything that had happened to him so far during the week, but his memories seemed to be misty and disjointed. He remembered his hands gripping the stairs and the taste of blood in his mouth, and Dudley's face in the picture smirking at him from the top of the stairs.

"I apologize. It seems that I was very much mistaken in my hopes that you would be more concerned about your nephew's well-being. It is a pity that Lily's own sister wouldn't feel compassion for a suffering human being, let alone her own family. Needless to say, had your son, Dudley, and young Mr. Potter been in reversed positions, Lily and James would have been glad to welcome and care for Dudley as though he were their own."

The stern voice floated through Harry's ringing ears. Once again, he tried to open his eyes, to identify the strangely familiar voice that spoke so boldly to his relatives. However, it seemed as though a concrete brick was pressing over his face and after a brief struggle with his heavy, throbbing eyelids, he sank his head back into the pillow resignedly.

If anyone in the room took notice of his stirrings, they didn't mention it. The strange conversation between his aunt, uncle, and mystery person continued, sounding more and more heated as each word grew louder and more emphasized.

"You are out of line! How dare you come here and ridicule us for bearing this inconvenience for nearly fifteen years! How dare you expect us to do more than what you've already asked? We took the boy in, yes, but at what cost to us? Have you any idea how we ourselves have suffered in the presence of that—that—worthless child? We have risked the welfare of our reputations, of our possessions, of our careers for this boy, not to mention the safety of our own son!" Uncle Vernon paused for a moment, and Harry could hear him breathing heavily through his nostrils.

"Vernon, shhh!" hissed Aunt Petunia's voice, but Vernon's rant seemed beyond the capacity of being quelled.

"We have allowed him a roof over his head, given him clothes to wear, and we have let the brat eat our own food! We are not here for any medical or emotional support. If he is a…a…a wiz—one of your kind, then he should be able to take care of himself. As far as I can see, he is a selfish, ungrateful, cold-hearted little--"

"_Enough."_ That one word was spoken very softly, yet it contained so much force that Harry felt goose bumps rise on his arms and he shivered. His uncle's voice died away, yet his words still seemed to echo in Harry's aching ears.

_Wretched…heartless…_

"I am afraid that you are not in the position of making such judgments and accusations about someone whom you do not even treat as a person, Mr. Dursley. Your words make it perfectly clear to me that you do not know much about your charge. You are blinded by your bitterness and contempt of our world. You refuse to acknowledge that your nephew here is an individual with needs far beyond the simple physical necessities that keep us alive as time passes. Yes, you have taken Harry in; you have clothed him, and fed him……quite generously, judging by his extreme thinness. However, as Harry seems to be in great need of attention and kindness presently, and since you have demonstrated incapacity of offering such care, I must see to it that Harry receives the decent treatment that he so rightly deserves. Harry will not be staying here for the remainder of the summer holiday. We will be leaving shortly. You may expect to see him again next year for his final stay before he comes of age. Until then, he will be in far more able hands. I will send someone to collect Harry's belongings in a few days. Good evening to you both."

Harry's foggy brain vaguely registered footsteps retreating down the stairs as he tried to understand the words that were just spoken. "…_Harry will not be staying here..." _Where was he going to go? Who was taking him?

He suddenly felt a cool hand rest over his forehead and eyes. His body twitched violently.

"Just relax, Harry." The hand gently slid down his face and along both sides of his neck. He then felt two hands pressing deeply beneath his jaw line. _Ouch._ For one wild moment, he thought that he was about to be strangled, but then the hands lifted from his neck. The person at his bedside squeezed Harry's shoulder gently, and as he felt his limp, aching body being pulled off of his lumpy mattress and onto something more narrow and much softer, Harry finally cracked his watery eyes open a tiny bit, only to see a swirl of silver hair.

"D—Dumbledore?"

"Yes, Harry," the voice answered softly. "Everything will be all right now."

A sudden sense of panic engulfed Harry. _Why would Dumbledore himself come to fetch Harry? Was this really Dumbledore or a Death Eater in disguise? How could he know? What if he would be carted off to Voldemort in a matter of minutes? He had no way of defending himself! _

Harry thrashed aggressively against the stretcher he was lying on, even though those movements sent fire to his injuries. The blankets tangled around his body like a straitjacket and it only heightened Harry's sense of desperation. _I have to get away!_ He thought that if he could roll himself onto the floor, he could perhaps find his wand. He couldn't remember where he had last seen it. Was it underneath the floorboards? Under the bed? In his back pocket?

His thoughts were interrupted when he felt a cool hand rest against his forehead and another against his chest. "Don't do that, Harry," the person claiming to be Dumbledore said, as Harry tried to twist around the hands that thwarted his struggles.

"I assure you, I am who I say I am, Harry," Dumbledore's voice said, as though he knew the cause of Harry's restlessness. "And if you require verification, I will provide it. I have known you for many years, though we have never had a decent conversation, face-to-face, until your first year at Hogwarts. On that occasion, I remember that you glimpsed your family in a mirror and I told you that I saw socks."

Harry stopped his struggling; he felt his muscles relax against the cloth beneath him, but the throbbing remained throughout his limbs and torso.

"Thank you, Harry. Please be still and relaxed. I do not know the extent of your illness or injuries yet, but I do know that you should not move unless it is absolutely necessary. I am taking you to a place where you can be healed."

The sincerity in his voice was nearly overpowering. Harry didn't know how to respond. He suddenly felt a cocoon of relief envelop him and he felt his body sink further into the stretcher.

"You're safe now," Dumbledore said. "Everything will be all right."

Harry used the last of his strength to shake his head weakly from side to side. "No," he whispered, before he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for all of the reviews I received for my previous two chapters; they were very kind and encouraging! I could always use more, though. Please feel free to drop off any comments and constructive criticism. They will be most appreciated!---Kittyrunner 


	4. Sugarplum Poplar

**Disclaimer: **All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of J. K. Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

**A/N:** Well, here's the fourth chapter! I must warn you, I do switch the point of view various times throughout the chapter, so please let me know if it is too confusing. I hope you like it!

* * *

**Harry Potter and the Time of Transition**

Chapter Four

_Sugarplum Poplar_

* * *

Albus Dumbledore strode briskly out of Number 4 Privet Drive, the stretcher gliding smoothly beside him. Harry Potter was not unconscious yet, but Dumbledore could see that he was close to it. His eyes were glazed over, the lids half-shut. He was panting too. Dumbledore patted the teen's knee, hoping to shed some sort of comfort or support.

"Almost there, Harry," he said, as they walked past house after house. As soon as they were beyond the perimeter of the protective wards, he could bring Harry to a safer location.

He hadn't planned to remove Harry from his relatives' residence after only a couple weeks, but circumstances caused him to set his emergency plan into motion. The safest place Harry could inhabit, besides Hogwarts and his aunt and uncle's residence, of course, would need to have a complete array of protective spells, wards, and enchantments. These spells could not be conjured overnight. Dumbledore's decision to remove Harry was made a mere three hours ago, and therefore, there was not enough time to invoke a series of complicated bewitchments. As a result, Dumbledore had no choice but to move Harry someplace where he himself could keep a close eye on him until The Burrow could be activated with the proper wards.

At last he stopped along Number 10 Privet Drive, where the boundary of the wards was located, and bent over a rubbish bin. After a few flicks of his wand and the sound of a lot of shifting garbage, a cracked glass mug levitated out into the night air. The aged wizard caught it deftly in his left hand, and tapped it once with his wand. "_Portus_". Satisfied with the temporary blue tint that vibrated throughout the glass, Dumbledore put his wand back within his robe and knelt down next to the stretcher.

"Harry," he said gently. "I want you to take this portkey."

The teen's face drooped to the side, his eyelids fluttering down. Dumbledore knew that there was no point explaining his actions to Harry tonight as he was quite unresponsive. He gently grasped Harry's right wrist, the one without the swelling in it, and curled Harry's fingers around the handle of the mug. After placing a Cushioning Shield around Harry to ensure he wasn't jostled too much on the Portkey's rough journey, Dumbledore pinched the rim of the glass, raised his wand, and murmured "_one, two, three_….."

After a dizzying display of color and sound, they landed next to a coat rack in the parlor of Dumbledore's summer home. The headmaster, however, didn't even bother to take his shoes or cloak off. He wasted no time in levitating Harry up to the guest bedroom.

Dumbledore hastened to the royal blue four-poster in the center of the room and peeled off the covers. He then carefully maneuvered Harry off of the stretcher and tried to settle him comfortably on the bed. Harry squirmed. In the light of the room's flickering fireplace, Dumbledore could see Harry more properly than he had in the dim light of Privet Drive. While in a state of unconsciousness, his eyes flickered beneath the lids, a clear sign that he was dreaming. His face was slick with sweat and dried blood was crusted along his scar and nostrils. Dumbledore quickly assessed his vitals. His pulse was strong, but much too fast. His breathing was erratic, and the unmistakable flush of fever blossomed on his skin. The young man also bore quite a few injuries along his body that Dumbledore had not fully evaluated yet.

"Minty!" Dumbledore called to his house-elf. The pink-nosed creature pronounced herself with a loud _crack_ and the Headmaster was pleased to see that she was already holding his carpetbag of medical potions and supplies. "Ah, excellent, Minty. Very intuitive. Could I ask you to fire-call Madam Pomfrey and tell her that I need her assistance? Then could you bring a few flannels and a bowl of cool water as well? Thank you."

Harry looked to be in such poor condition that Dumbledore sensed he could not afford to wait for Madam Pomfrey. After all, he was a fairly accomplished healer himself and he might as well start without the nurse. He set to work immediately, opening up his floral medical bag and searching for wraps, salves, and potions so that he could ease some of Harry's suffering as quickly as possible. He surmised that Harry may have sustained these injuries since two days prior. At least, that was when his sources had asserted that Harry had not ventured outside as was his daily pastime at his relatives' residence. When news of Harry's change in routine reached the Headmaster, he had decided to activate his Affectus Sensor and was alarmed at the readings the instrument had given him…

Dumbledore pushed his thoughts aside as he needed to concentrate on the task at hand. There was blood on Harry's jeans and hands. His earth-stained clothes hung loosely on his frame, and yet they were sticky with sweat and other unpleasantness. Dumbledore quickly cast a Cleaning Charm on Harry before he carefully untied Harry's shoes and pulled them off his feet. A small waterfall of dirt cascaded onto the mattress as he did this. He guessed that Harry must have been outdoors when he sustained his injuries. After removing Harry's socks and oversized trousers, Dumbledore confirmed his hypothesis at the sight of shallow cuts and scratches criss-crossing his lower legs. Some of these wounds had thorns still embedded beneath the skin.

Harry's left shin was very swollen and Dumbledore probed it gently, using his fingertips and magic to detect the damage to the bone. He found the fracture in the shaft of the fibula, the smaller shin bone, and quickly ran his wand over it while pressing his fingers along his leg at the same time. He guided the magic and felt the bone knit itself back together. After repeating the same healing procedure with Harry's swollen left wrist, Dumbledore glanced over at his pupil's face and saw that it was tight with pain, even though he was still unconscious. An even deeper wave of concern than what he was already feeling for Harry washed over him and he reached back into his carpetbag, pulling out a tray of vials he had seen in his earlier rummaging. Selecting a Pain-Relieving Potion, he removed the cork and tipped the canary-yellow liquid into Harry's mouth, while supporting his head so he wouldn't choke.

By this time, Minty had returned alone with the items Dumbledore had asked for, and the little house-elf was busy wringing out the excess water from the flannel and handing it to the wizard.

"Minty is bringing cool flannels for Dumbledore's Harry, sir, but the nurse says to Minty that she cannot comes to sir's house yet, because nurse's father is sick and she is staying with him, sir."

"Thank you, Minty. Did Madam Pomfrey say _when_ she would be coming?"

"Mad Pomfee is telling Minty she is coming tomorrow morning, sir, but that if we needs more help tonight Dumbledore can contact a healer from Say Mungie's."

Dumbledore frowned. He did not feel comfortable bringing an unfamiliar healer into his home to take care of Harry. Even though the wizarding world was now aware that Harry was telling the truth about Voldemort, there would still be some who would blame the teen for the dark wizard's return. Not to mention if word reached the newspapers about Harry's current condition, it could put Harry's life in further jeopardy. No, no one but he, his house-elf, or Madam Pomfrey should be able to see Harry in such a vulnerable state. Harry would probably be embarrassed enough as it was, without strangers being involved.

"No, that's all right, Minty. We can wait until morning. In the meantime, I can care for him."

"Minty can help too, sir! Minty can bring comfort for sir's Harry. See?" And the little elf hopped onto the other side of the bed and held Harry's hand between two of her tiny ones.

Dumbledore beamed at the little elf and then requested that she help him lean Harry forward so he could remove his shirt. The tall wizard and tiny house-elf gently pulled the limp teen into a sitting position and curled his torso forward until his head rested on Dumbledore's shoulder. They then pulled his shirt up and over his head before easing him back into the pillows. Dumbledore's eyes darkened at the sight of Harry's chest while Minty let out a loud gasp.

There was deep purple bruising along Harry's ribs and side, but that was not nearly as disconcerting as the thinness of Harry's torso. Each rib was clearly defined underneath the teen's pale skin. His breastbone poked out like the prow of a ship, giving his rib cage a sort of cave-like appearance.

"Dumbledore's Harry should eats more pumpkin pasties!" Minty exclaimed.

"Indeed," the wizard murmured. The Headmaster was mildly surprised to feel his eyes begin to water. He had to blink for a few seconds before he could see well enough to continue healing Harry.

He probed along the teen's abdomen, feeling for any swelling or other signs of internal damage. There was tenderness, but he didn't think there was significant bleeding. He was surprised when Harry began to fight him though, his hands pushing away at Dumbledore's.

"Peace, Harry. I need to see where you're hurt. Lie back."

Harry's eyes were squeezed tightly shut and he fiercely twisted his body from side-to-side. He didn't seem to be in full consciousness. Minty pressed a cool flannel over his eyes and thankfully, Harry relaxed.

Clad only in his boxer shorts, the boy should have been freezing, but instead a fierce heat emanated from his body. Following Minty's example, Dumbledore laid more damp flannels on Harry's upper chest, neck, and forehead in an attempt to alleviate his fevered skin. Apparently, Harry was also suffering from some kind of illness, though whether this was brought on by his wounds or not, the Headmaster didn't know.

Accomplished wizard that he was, Dumbledore had never treated a person with such extensive injuries and illness before and he wanted another professional opinion before he continued. It seemed that Harry's most grievous injuries had been addressed, so he would just have to wait for Madame Pomfrey's assistance in the morning.

Dumbledore pulled the down comforter over the lower half of Harry's body, and then checked the boy's pulse again. He seemed to be in no immediate danger. The aged wizard conjured a soft chair beside Harry's bed and settled into it, planning to keep watch over Harry throughout the night.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey spent a lot of time checking up on Harry over the next few days. Dumbledore had to assist her in her examinations because Harry was delirious and lashed out during any physical contact. At times Harry fought so ferociously that Dumbledore had no choice but to put him to sleep with magic. He was surprised that Harry, in his emaciated state, had so much strength in him.

He had looked on in admiration as Madam Pomfrey worked her magic. She had easily mended all of his internal bruising and she rubbed a pungent ointment on Harry's scratches, causing the thorns to slip out of his skin, and for the redness and inflammation to disappear.

"This salve does nothing for the infection that has already entered his bloodstream though," Poppy had explained. "For that, he will need to take this potion here." She gestured at a goblet filled with a clear liquid. It could have been water, except for the lime green vapor that rose in curly tendrils from the cup's rim.

"He is very tough, Albus," Madam Pomfrey had said. "I'm sure he'll pull through just fine."

Yet there were moments when Dumbledore feared the worst. On the second night of Harry's unconscious state, Harry's fever had escalated to a scorching 105 degrees Fahrenheit. Madam Pomfrey wasn't on the premises at that time so Dumbledore had conjured a thin blanket of ice, which he had molded to fit to Harry's form. It wasn't until about an hour later that Harry's fever had been reduced to a more manageable 102 degrees. Dumbledore could breathe again.

* * *

Albus stirred his tea slowly, watching the sugar cubes melt into the crisp brown liquid. He was sitting in a vivid orange armchair, perfect for reclining, though he remained perched on the edge of the seat, his eyes fixed steadily on the figure that lay immobile on the bed beside him.

He had been taking care of Harry for three days, during which he had hardly left his side. His condition was far more serious than he had originally assessed at the Dursleys: a fractured fibula, sprained wrist, infected abrasions along his legs and hands---it was apparent that Harry had fallen from a height. Plus, Madam Pomfrey had detected a rare wizard's virus within Harry, which explained the fever, vomiting, and delirium.

Dumbledore couldn't help but be highly concerned about his health—mental more than physical. Harry cried out for his godfather periodically and Dumbledore wasn't sure whether this was due to his delirium or from his own grief. His face was flushed with sweat and his eyelids fluttered almost constantly with dreams. Whether these dreams were emerging from Harry's own subconscious or from the actions of Lord Voldemort, Albus didn't know.

The young man had indeed suffered incredibly over the past year. Albus thought that Harry could pull himself out of his depression, that he could work through his sorrow, that he could accept the tragedies that had fallen, and find comfort in his friends who cared so deeply for him. He thought that all Harry needed was some time…he was wrong, and as he stared at this troubled and ill teen lying before him, he realized that he couldn't be the businesslike headmaster or the stoic, professional teacher. Dumbledore always vowed never to grow too attached to any student. It was a key mandate that all teachers inadvertently followed, for as each year trickles by, educators must step back and watch their students grow and mature into fine wizards and witches, only to see them depart and move on into careers and professions. By then a new batch of promising young adults would arrive and the process begins anew. It was a tiring cycle and some students were remembered more easily than others, but in the end, most pupils just blurred together and became stowed away in the deep pockets of memory and were often forgotten.

Not so with Harry Potter. He was both special and unusual in many different ways, and his Headmaster couldn't find it in himself to observe but not interfere with his troubles. Dumbledore had planned on treating him just like any student, planned on not crossing the boundary in the typical headmaster/pupil relationship; however, it would not be so with the troubled young man in his care. Harry had experienced so much grief and pain in his brief years, much of which was partially Albus' own doing, and he couldn't bear to step aside and let Harry go. No, he was going to assist him; he would prepare him for the terrible task Harry was destined to fulfill. But firstly, it seemed, Harry needed help coping…

He was no ordinary student. Quite the contrary, he had the will and determination to survive some of the cruelest challenges ever conceived of…and it was taking its toll on him. Albus could see it in Harry's fragile frame, the worry lines from his nearly constantly furrowed brow, and the plum-colored ovals beneath his eyes. So much loss at such a young age…

Dumbledore sighed and set his tea down on the nightstand beside him. Since Harry wasn't supposed to wake up any time soon, he'd might as well retire to his study and send out some owls.

* * *

Harry's memories after he left the Dursleys were hazy to say the least. Through a hot, fever-induced cloud Harry recalled a maelstrom of sensations, each as foreign as the last. He felt someone removing his shoes from his feet and each tug on his shoelaces felt like a zap of electricity shooting up into his ankles. The weight of something thick and heavy on him made his body ache and was threatening to suffocate him. And the hands….hands were always on him, bending his arms and legs, pressing underneath his jaw line, and probing his stomach. Every touch made him want to scream, cry, attack, escape.

At times, monsters hovered over him with clubs and claws, threatening to hurt him. Harry yelled and thrashed hard until there would be a flash of silver light and the world dissolved from his eyes...

There was a parasite in his stomach, writhing and twisting. It was kneading against the inside of his skin, making him sick. He had to get it out. It was killing him. Nausea rippled through his body and he instinctively opened his mouth as wide as he could, the hinges of his jaw popping. Then the hands were on him again, turning him over, sending pain zipping down his spine. Harry screamed and with it came dark liquid from his belly, coating his mouth with warm copper and arching past his lips and over the cliff he was perched upon, like some bizarre wine fountain. Spray from the sea lurched up the rock face, staining the craggy surface a glistening red. Noises echoed in his ears, making them throb horribly. His balance wavered, and he felt arms steady him.

"Don't let go of me," he mumbled to whoever was supporting him. "There're rocks below."

"I have you, Harry," a voice replied. "You cannot fall."

* * *

"How is he, Albus?"

"Still delirious, I'm afraid. And he has vomited more blood."

"I will leave more potions with you. The virus is simply running its course. He is actually improving, Albus. This is only the fourth day so his healing will take some time yet. The swelling in his lymph nodes has decreased and his temperature has fallen a bit. I need you to give him these potions every hour though, and please, once his fever actually breaks and he regains consciousness, don't let him out of bed for at least a week. Mr. Potter has an uncanny determination for defying bed rest."

Dumbledore's moustache twitched and his notorious twinkle, which had been uncharacteristically absent the past several days, returned in full force.

Madame Pomfrey's face softened and she placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Don't worry yourself, Headmaster. You're taking good care of him. If you hadn't gone to visit Harry at his relatives, I shudder to think what could have happened to him. Harry's lucky to have someone who cares for him so much."

Dumbledore felt his face burn and he looked down at the floor momentarily. When he looked up again, Poppy's hawklike gaze was boring into him. Dumbledore smiled sadly and squeezed the nurse's shoulder. "There are many others in this world who care for him also. He has never been alone."

Madame Pomfrey smiled assuringly one last time before exiting the room. Dumbledore stared pensively at the door to his guest room where Harry Potter lay ill, and he murmured, "I only wish Harry would realize this too."

* * *

A thick, opaque darkness wrapped around Harry, cocooning his body in its heavy quilt. It caressed him lovingly and kept his body cool and comfortable. There was no sense of time—minutes, hours, days, or even weeks may have passed and Harry wouldn't have noticed, or cared for that matter. The flames and heat were gone. The cliff was gone. Harry was safe and his body was encased in softness and calm.

_Click-click._

_What was that?_ Harry wondered idly. A gentle tingling sensation fluttered down his limbs.

_Click-click-click._

Harry didn't like the sound. It was too loud, too interruptive. He suddenly felt more open, more exposed. His body wasn't safe anymore; what happened to his soft, dark cocoon?

_Click-click-click-click._

There it was again! And the sound was getting louder. _Closer._ An image invaded his thoughts. It was of a giant spider, with its gnarled legs and clicking jaws, snapping them hungrily.

Harry's finger twitched and with that movement, his bodily awareness returned in full force. He was lying in some kind of bed. His hands were folded on his chest; he could feel them rising and falling with each breath. Something cool and wet pressed heavily on his forehead, and Harry wanted to reach up and touch it, but he couldn't get his hand to respond for some reason. His body was still tingling, aching.

_Click._

Aragog? No, it couldn't be. How could the giant spider be indoors? That is, Harry assumed he was indoors, because most beds weren't outside. He felt his ears swim and then he heard the clicking sound again, only it was somehow different, clearer. The click wasn't sharp and dry like Aragog's it was more, well, _tonal_….bell-like even. He opened his eyes.

The room he occupied was blurry, and the only thing he could make out was a crackling fireplace across from his bed. He felt its warmth on his toes, which he curled experimentally. Next he tried to slide his leg to the side and was mildly surprised to feel a dull ache along his shin. He was about to wiggle his fingers when he heard—

_Click-click-click._

Harry turned his head somewhat sharply towards the sound. It was coming from his right. A tall figure was sitting at a desk; his frame was stooping over something, his hands busy. He had long, silver hair…

"_Sir?"_

The figure seemed to startle for a moment, straightening so fast that Harry heard his spine creak.

"Good gracious, Harry! I was not expecting you to be awake yet, let alone lucid." He pressed the back of his hand to Harry's cheek and then said, "Ah, your fever has broken."

He then pulled out a drawer and withdrew something, placing it on Harry's face. _His glasses._

As the world came into focus, Harry saw that Dumbledore was beaming at him, that tell-tale twinkle glinting in his eyes. "Where am I?" Harry asked in a croaky voice.

"Sugarplum Poplar."

"What?" he voiced, while accepting the glass of water that Dumbledore had handed him.

The headmaster chuckled and then said, "Sugarplum Poplar is the title given to this cottage. My father had invented the name in the year 1859. He had, shall we say, a profound appreciation for anything that could have the power to rot the teeth. It was one of the traits that I indefinitely inherited from him."

"This is your father's house?" Harry asked softly, incredulously. His throat felt much better now, but new pain was unfolding over various parts of his body. His temples and chest and leg throbbed with the beat of his heart.

"Yes and no, Harry. This _was _my father's house a very long time ago, but it now belongs to me. This is my summer home." He smiled at the astonished expression on Harry's face, his mustache twitching slightly. "It must be difficult, in the mind of a student, to realize that I do not live at Hogwarts all year round."

Harry felt a blush bathe his face. Why was his Headmaster taking care of him? Didn't he have better things to do with his time? He was especially reminded of his last conversation with his Headmaster, in his office, and he felt his face grow even redder. He had lost his temper in front of Dumbledore then. He was surprised that Dumbledore even wanted to be around Harry after that. He must have better things to do with his time than to babysit angry, emotionally deranged teenagers…

"You don't need to look after me, sir," Harry said. "I mean, I can just go back to my aunt and--"

"I do not want you to return to your relatives for the remainder of the summer, Harry," Dumbledore interrupted him, looking somewhat stern. "You would not receive the proper care at their residence. Therefore, you will be staying here, with me, for part of the summer and then, perhaps some later arrangements can be made closer to the start of the new term. Until then, however, it is my wish that you live here with me."

Harry frowned at Dumbledore, who was fixing him with a reassuring smile. Harry hated it. He didn't want to stay here so that Dumbledore could keep a closer eye on him! The Headmaster just wanted to make sure that Harry wasn't going to get anybody else killed. Even though the Headmaster hadn't acknowledged it in his office at the end of term, Harry was still certain that Dumbledore blamed Harry at least _partially _for Sirius' death…

He felt his heart ache at the thought of his godfather, and he quickly tried to compose himself. The emotional pain that had suddenly engulfed his senses also brought his physical injuries into sharper awareness. Half of his body throbbed!

"Take this potion, Harry." Dumbledore pressed something to his lips, and Harry downed it in one gulp. Instantly, the pain faded far into the background.

He sighed in relief, relaxing into the pillows. "That's better, sir."

Dumbledore smiled again, and reached for a cup of tea that was resting on the desk. He withdrew a small spoon from within his sleeve and stirred the caramel-colored contents of the cup.

_Click-click-click-click._

Harry stared. So _that's _what was making the clicking sound. Dumbledore was stirring his tea!

Dumbledore must have noticed what Harry's gaze was directed at, for he said in a rueful tone, "I would offer you my tea instead of those nasty potions, but I am afraid this would be a bit too rich for your stomach at the moment. Madame Pomfrey's scan revealed that you have vomited quite frequently in the past several days, including at the Dursley's residence." He paused, smiling. "Judging by the expression on your face, you can affirm that her scan was accurate. Nevertheless, I am afraid that your stomach will be rather delicate for a while and we will have to choose your meals carefully. However, rest assured you will be in top form in a week or two."

Harry blinked quite a few times as he felt his vision blur with fatigue.

"Ah, yes. I'm afraid that Madame Pomfrey's potions contain an additive that produces drowsiness. Why don't you rest now, and we can talk more tomorrow."

Harry tried to give his consent, but realized that it was too much effort, and decided to succumb to the cocooning darkness instead.

* * *

_The cool wind tickled Harry's hair and he shivered slightly, suppressing a giggle. An airy whisper was borne on the wind and Harry strained to hear the words._

"_Harry…Harry…Listen."_

"_I am listening!" Harry shouted, but his voice only came out as a whisper._

"_Where are you Harry?" the voice sounded panicked, desperate._

"_I'm right HERE!" Harry's voice strained in his throat and he began to run towards the disembodied voice. His legs seemed to sink into the ground as though he was running on a huge pillow stuffed with candy floss, his footfalls soft and silent._

_His body was suspended in a slow-motion cage. He pumped his arms and legs furiously, but he only seemed to move a couple of inches at a time. He could feel sweat from his efforts pour off of him. He had to reach that voice. He just had to!_

_His breathing emerged as panicked gasps. The wind was blowing all around him, yet his body remained stagnant. It was howling now, the wind, and it sounded almost gleeful too. _It's toying with me_, Harry realized. _It's not letting me through!

_And then all at once, the wind stopped. There was something in front of Harry, though he couldn't see it at first. He felt it tickling his face, brushing his cheek. Then all of a sudden, Harry could see everything in front of him with acute clarity. The arch was looming before him, steadfast and true, a gateway transcendent to anything he had ever known. It was solid and real, and Harry knew that this was where he needed to be. Tiny whispers echoed from within its void, and its black curtain fluttered seductively, brushing his face with a silky caress._

"_You've found me."_

Harry woke up abruptly, his body jerking into motion.He felt his world upend and gravity seized him in its fierce grip. The next thing he realized was that he was lying on his back on Dumbledore's blue oriental carpet with his feet still trapped in the covers of the bed. His elbow smarted painfully where he assumed it had collided with the mahogany nightstand.

Before he could attempt to move his body into a more comfortable position, he heard footfalls coming from the corridor beyond his room. One second later, the footfalls stopped near the doorway behind Harry.

"Oh dear, this is quite a predicament."

Harry felt himself flush as Dumbledore strode into his line of vision. He was wearing scarlet robes fringed with gold thread. His face looked concerned.

"Did you injure yourself?"

"No," Harry whispered, feeling very abashed.

Dumbledore untangled his legs from the sheets and raised Harry up on his feet.

"Do you need to use the loo?"

"Er--" Harry said, feeling his face grow very hot. Truthfully, he did feel a mounting pressure in his bladder, but he didn't want to share that bit of information with anyone. He also wasn't sure how sturdy his legs were; he hadn't walked on them since he was at the Dursleys.

His Headmaster already seemed to guess Harry's discomfort. "The bathroom is this way." He wrapped an arm around Harry's waist and helped him walk to the toilet, which was down the hall from Harry's room.

"I will wait outside the door. Let me know when you are finished."

Harry nodded, staring at the ivory-colored bathroom tile, wishing fervently that it was one week earlier and he was still at the Dursleys. Then he would be alone and he wouldn't be such a liability to everyone. He could decipher his dreams on his own, and figure out how to defeat Voldemort without risking the lives of anyone else.

When he was finished with his business, Dumbledore opened the door. "Let's get you back in bed now. Madam Pomfrey will have my beard if she knew I had let you get up. She had originally insisted on the use of a bedpan for this week, but I thought that you would prefer to take care of those particular needs by yourself."

"Yeah, thanks," Harry murmured, glad that Dumbledore was at least preventing him from experiencing _that _kind of embarrassment. As they walked down the short hallway and back to the Headmaster's guest room, Harry couldn't help but feel alarmed by how much he had to lean on Dumbledore for support. His legs shook like mad, and he felt as though what little strength he had within him was leaking out like the air from a deflating balloon.

As Dumbledore tucked Harry back into bed, he said, "Your body is recovering from a rare virus. Madame Pomfrey gave you a potion to eliminate many of its symptoms: fever, vomiting, and hallucinations among others. However, the virus is still within you, your body is fighting it off yet, and therefore, you will be extremely weak for a while."

Harry nodded his head in understanding as Dumbledore pulled the desk chair close to Harry's bed and sat down upon it. Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable; he could sense an encroaching interrogation.

"Could you tell me, Harry, how you happened to fall out of bed?"

* * *

****

**A/N:** Well, that's it for now! I hope you enjoyed it! Please please please review; any feedback is most welcome, thanks!---Kittyrunner


	5. The Doldrums

**Disclaimer:** All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of J. K. Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

**A/N: **This one is my longest chapter yet! I hope you like it. Any other comments would be very helpful too. I just thought I'd let you know that even though this is an alternate universe fic, there will still be some elements from book six in it. Enjoy!

* * *

**Harry Potter and the Time of Transition**

Chapter 5

_The Doldrums_

* * *

Harry swallowed down the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. He said the only thing that couldn't be detected as a direct lie.

"I—I don't really know, sir."

It was partially true. He didn't know why he was getting such strange dreams and he especially didn't know why they would cause him to tumble out of bed in such a manner.

Dumbledore seemed to accept his answer, though not without a probing gaze. His twinkling eyes continued to focus on him, and Harry knew that this conversation was far from over.

"How long have I been here?" Harry voiced, trying to change the subject.

"Five days. You were suffering from both illness and several injuries when I brought you here. Madam Pomfrey and I had to work extremely hard to heal you."

Harry felt another blush flame in his face. His fingers nervously played with his pinstriped pajamas, rubbing at the soft, white cotton. He was doing that a lot lately—both blushing and making people take care of him. The thought of Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey fussing over him both day and night made him cringe. He tried to ignore Dumbledore's presence and instead focused on the features of the bedroom.

The fireplace crackled steadily; its orange flicker was casting warm shadows on the nearby stone hearth, like the lapping of the ocean's waves as it caresses the shoreline. It was soothing to Harry, and he felt his heartbeat calm a little. There was a tall window to his left, but the midnight blue curtains warded off any hint as to what time of day it was. The walls were a dark shade of periwinkle and were adorned with pictures of pastoral landscapes. Harry wondered if these were places that Dumbledore had visited before.

He let his gaze fall on the polished wooden floor, which gleamed with reflected light from the lamp that was sitting atop the handsome mahogany desk. The sapphire-colored lampshade was strewn with owls of every color, which swooped and glided around in circles.

"Harry?" Dumbledore voiced very gently. "Could you tell me what you remember of your injuries? When I visited you at the Dursleys, you had a shattered leg and wrist, as well as several scratches and contusions. How did you sustain them?"

"I fell off a ladder," Harry answered quickly, as the memory flooded back to him. "I was washing the second story windows for my uncle and I fell, that's all."

There was an uncomfortable pause. Harry knew that he was being rather vague, and that Dumbledore would clearly realize that he was omitting something, but he felt uneasy disclosing the strange dreams that he had been experiencing. That was personal—it was between him and Sirius.

"I see," Dumbledore said patiently, though he fixed Harry with a keen stare. "I find it curious, however, that you would be so clumsy as to fall off a ladder in the first place, Harry. Ever since I have known you, you have demonstrated great skill at motor coordination and balance, both on the Quidditch pitch and elsewhere. I suspect it may have taken more than an error in footing to have caused your fall. Can you remember?"

_Damn_, Harry thought. He had to tell Dumbledore something.

"My scar hurt and it caused me to fall."

"Was that the only time it has pained you?" Dumbledore asked. His eyes were both concerned and piercing as they searched Harry's face.

Harry quickly tried to put up his own barriers in his mind, in case the Headmaster was using Legilimency on him. He tried to make his mind go completely blank as he forced a neutral expression on his face. Somehow he knew that it would not be good for Dumbledore to discover Harry's dreams about Sirius. Although he didn't see any reason to not tell the Headmaster that his scar hurt occasionally, he still didn't want to tell the Headmaster about his dreams of Voldemort's victims. After all, it was his burden to bear and all of those people were dead by the end of the dream, so there was nothing that could be done to help them. With the exception of the vision concerning Mr. Weasley, there was no need to share his dreams with anyone.

"No sir, my scar hurts from time to time. I reckon it's just something I have to get used to. I mean, with people now fully aware of Voldemort's return, he will probably be more active and then it makes sense for my scar to be hurting me. Voldemort hasn't tried to…you know…possess me, so I thought that there was no reason to tell you."

"Thank you for revealing this to me, Harry," said Dumbledore in a rather serious tone. "I must however impress upon you that you really ought to tell me about any scar pains or dreams that you may experience. It is not good for anyone to undergo such pain alone, whether it is physical or mental. Please remember that as your temporary guardian, I am here to help you."

Harry nodded, the lump suddenly returning to his throat. He felt a wave of guilt pass over him, which felt as though a bucket of ice water was being slowly poured all over his body. The Headmaster cared for him; he had told Harry this in June. After all of the cruel, angry words he had shouted at Dumbledore, after trashing his office like some wild, raging animal, the Headmaster still had taken him in, had rescued him from the Dursleys, and was now offering concern and support. How could Dumbledore think that he deserved such treatment?

"Could I be alone now, sir? I think I want to rest."

"Of course, Harry." Dumbledore smiled gently and patted the mattress. "It is after all, a little after four in the morning. No doubt you must be tired. I will wake you in a few hours; you should have some breakfast. You are extremely malnourished, no thanks to your illness…or your relatives, for that matter. My house-elf, Minty, makes an excellent fruit porridge and I must insist that you sample it."

"Thanks, sir. Good night, or good morning, rather," Harry muttered, turning over in his bed. He listened as Dumbledore's retreating footsteps grew fainter in the adjoining hallway, like the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops in a waning storm. He exhaled the breath that he had been holding and felt his eyes begin to moisten as his thoughts turned to Sirius. He closed his eyes and urged sleep to come and take away all of his thoughts and worries. It was too much to deal with at the moment. He wanted peace, even if it would only last a few minutes before the dreams would begin…

* * *

It was the smell of mint that woke Harry up. It wafted into his nostrils and cleared his head of whatever dreams he had endured over the past few hours. Thoughts of candy canes, chewing gum, and peppermint humbugs floated in his mind. There was a warm pressure on his knees, as though a dog was lying on him. _Sirius!_

_POP!_

Harry startled from his supine position, his eyes flying open, hands reaching for his glasses on the nightstand. The warm pressure on his knees shifted abruptly and made a small gasping noise. As Harry's sight returned to full normalcy, with the help of his glasses, he realized that the weight on his legs was not a dog, but a house-elf.

The little creature in question was wringing her hands nervously, her amber eyes as wide as galleons, and with a sticky green substance smeared all over her lips, chin, and nose.

"Er…hello," Harry said, in what he hoped was a gentle and calm tone, despite the fact that his heartbeat was still racing like mad.

The house-elf gave a little curtsy, curling up the ends of her pink, velvet dress into a frilly crescent. She wore cerulean blue leggings that reached just below her little wobbly knees, and orange fuzzy socks with lime green pom-poms stuck all over them. Her dark, frizzy hair was wrapped in a tight bun and held together with what should have been hair needles, but instead were candy canes. After examining her apparel, Harry guessed that this elf was free.

"Good morning, Mister Harry Potter sir! Minty is very sorry for waking Harry Potter! Minty is bringing breakfast and is chewing her peppermint gum when suddenly a big bubble comes out of Minty's mouth and Minty accidentally popped it too loud and it wakes up Mister Potter!" The house-elf said all of this very quickly and her voice grew shrill and panicked by the end of her explanation.

"It's all right, er, Minty," Harry said in what he hoped was a placating tone. He didn't want the elf to start bashing her head into the wall. "I don't mind you waking me up. You just startled me, that's all."

"So Harry Potter is not angry at Minty?"

"Not one bit."

A relieved expression surged on the house-elf's face and she immediately began to chatter on and on about the blueberry porridge she had prepared for Harry. As she talked, she whisked a tray onto Harry's lap with the porridge wafting its delicious, fruity scent in his direction.

It smelled wonderful, but Harry wasn't sure if he would be able to eat it all. Despite the hunger pangs he felt in his stomach, he didn't know if those twinges could quickly turn to nausea. He wasn't used to eating a whole lot. Even at the Dursleys, he rarely finished a full meal. He just wasn't that hungry, and it was too difficult to force his food down if his body and mind didn't want it. However, he was sure that if he didn't eat the food, Minty would most likely report it to Dumbledore. The prospect of being confined to bed for even longer than a week, with Madam Pomfrey fussing over him, wasn't very appealing to Harry, and he therefore dipped his spoon into the bowl to take a bite.

Dumbledore was correct in his praise of the house-elf's cooking. The porridge was very tasty but not too sweet. The berries were crisp and juicy, and they left swirled stains in the beige porridge like little blue galaxies. The smooth, gooey texture felt good in his dry mouth and it warmed both his throat and his stomach as he swallowed the soft food. After two-thirds of the porridge was gone, he abruptly stopped eating, feeling very full and satisfied.

"Harry Potter should drink some water too or he will gets dye-drated," Minty said knowingly, holding out a tall glass with straw for him. Harry accepted it gratefully, smiling slightly to himself at both the elf's pronunciation error and the continued presence of green mint gum that was clinging to her face.

Harry sipped the cool liquid as he watched the peculiar house-elf. He had thought Dobby was eccentric, but he was beginning to appreciate the craziness in Dumbledore's house-elf as well. The little creature had apparently just realized that the remnants of her bubble were stuck to her face, for she began to delicately peel off the residue. She pulled the stickiness off her skin and curled it onto her finger where she proceeded to twirl it into a spiral ring. It looked as though a pale green vine was growing on her pinkie. She wiggled her little finger admiringly, before quickly popping it into her mouth and pulling off all of the gum. Within moments, she was smacking away happily and another bubble was already forming.

Harry chuckled, which seemed to snap the elf out of her reverie.

"I is sorry for my bad habit, Harry Potter, sir, but Minty is loving peppermint bubble gum. It is Minty's most favoritest treat!"

She snapped her fingers and Harry's tray disappeared. "Mister Harry Potter must takes these strengthening potions now," Minty declared, pulling from her dress pocket two vials--one orange and one clear. "Albus Dumbledore says they will helps you feel better."

Harry accepted them, downing each in one gulp. He wholeheartedly wished he had taken the potions before eating the blueberry porridge—they left behind an awful aftertaste.

"Where is Dumbledore anyway?" Harry asked.

"Mister Dumbledore is at very secret important meeting."

"For the Order?" Harry asked, in a slightly sullen voice.

Minty nodded and the two candy canes jiggled a little in her hair. "Mister Dumbledore says he can tell you about the meeting when he comes back. In the meantime, Harry Potter must take bath."

"What?" Harry asked, rather bewildered. But he had very little time to react as Minty snapped her fingers and the blankets flipped off of the four-poster bed. Two seconds later, Harry was being levitated out of the room.

"I can bathe myself, Minty!"

"Nope! Harry Potter is much too weak! Minty must help!"

Harry protested more, but realized that it was completely futile. The house-elf was right—he had very little strength. He was already tired and panting heavily from trying to break free of the levitation spell. Luckily, Minty used magic to help Harry with his bath and it didn't require her actual presence in the bathroom. He was very relieved that he could be alone during the process. Harry succumbed to the gentle ministrations of the spell that whisked Harry's pajamas off and pushed him into a large bathtub filled with pink, green, and blue bubbles.

The water felt fantastic. It was warm and eased the ache from his bones. All Harry had to do was lean back in the tub as several bars of soap floated around him busily rubbing. Harry suspected that the soap had certain pain-relieving qualities as they made various sore places of his body go completely numb.

Crinkling his forehead, Harry tried to think of the last time he had bathed at the Dursleys. It quickly dawned on him that he had not bathed at all in the two weeks that he had spent with his relatives. His daily routine there had comprised mainly of doing chores, lying down, and thinking about his dark destiny.

He felt a sinking feeling deep in his belly at the thought of the prophecy and his duty to the wizarding world. How was he to kill Voldemort? Would Dumbledore help him, or would he neglect him during school as he had last year? It seemed that Dumbledore was trying to be more open with him, that was certain, but to what extent would the Headmaster try to help him when the prophecy made it clear that it was Harry alone who could defeat the Dark Lord? It seemed to Harry that there was nothing anyone could really do to help. Harry would just have to confront Voldemort himself and hope that luck would run with him. If the prophecy marked Harry as the savior of the wizarding world, then nobody could really help him. It was he alone who would have to do it. It would be best to have as few people as possible who were close to him. With no connections, less people would get killed because of their association with him. After all, if Sirius hadn't known Harry, hadn't been close to Harry, then he wouldn't have been killed.

_But is he really dead? _Harry wondered. His dreams were coming to him more frequently, and they were getting sharper, clearer as well. They were even beginning to override his dreams about Voldemort's victims. Sirius was calling out to him. He was trying to reach him from the veil. What if the veil hadn't really killed him? What if Harry could bring him back?

"Do Harry Potter's fingers look like prunes yet?"

Harry startled as Minty's voice called out through the closed door. He sighed deeply. He would have to think more about Sirius later.

"Yeah, they're all wrinkled!" Harry called back after a quick glance at his hands. He was immediately flung out of the tub with the force of a sling-shot, and was being patted dry by fluffy, lilac-colored towels. Within minutes, he was dressed in new, freshly ironed, pinstriped pajamas and was zooming down the hallway. Minty was standing there like a traffic cop, her arms moving in wide, sweeping motions, directing Harry back to his bedroom.

After Harry was tucked tightly in between warm sheets and downy blankets (you'd think it was winter, not summer), Minty finally nodded in satisfaction.

"Now Harry Potter is all squeaky clean for Mister Dumbledore's return!"

"And your timing could not have been more perfect," a deep voice rumbled from the hallway.

Dumbledore stood framed in the doorway, looking resplendent in sapphire colored robes, a black belt cinched at his waist. His eyes twinkled merrily in Harry's direction.

"Ah, Harry. You truly have inherited your father's hair. Even water does not make it lie smooth."

"Sir," Harry acknowledged, keeping his eyes to the ground. He heard Dumbledore politely dismiss the house-elf and then approach Harry's bed.

"How are you feeling?" Dumbledore began.

"A little better, sir," Harry said softly. "But I'm still sore and tired."

"Well, that is to be expected. The virus you contracted is rather rare, and there is no cure for the residual symptoms that were left behind. You will be weak for several days yet."

Harry nodded miserably. Apparently, week-long bed rest was mandatory.

"I believe you must have some questions for me," the Headmaster invited.

Harry looked up from the coverlet. Dumbledore's face held a placid expression, his eyes twinkling away, the blue orbs glinting in merriment.

Harry opened his mouth and then paused. What should he ask? What was worth knowing? Did he really care what the Order was doing? Well, perhaps he should inquire a little bit, if only to appease Dumbledore.

"I was just wondering what the Order has been up to," he said rather tonelessly and then inwardly winced, hoping that Dumbledore didn't notice his lack of interest.

His wish didn't come true. Dumbledore's eyes narrowed a bit, but luckily, he didn't comment on Harry's tone.

"The Order has been busy protecting muggles and magic folk alike. Now that news of Voldemort's return is widely accepted, Voldemort has seen fit to reveal his presence all over Britain. Members of the Order of the Phoenix are stationed around important muggle leaders to prevent assassination. There are also witches and wizards who are patrolling various magical localities that have high concentrations of people, such as Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and London in general."

Harry nodded his head slowly, keeping his eyes focused on the lazy weaving of the fire in its grate in the far wall.

"The Order is still stationed at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, because any danger associated with Kreacher's treachery has evaporated with his own death."

It took a moment for these words to register properly in Harry's brain; he forced his eyes back to Dumbledore's face.

"Wh-what?"

"Kreacher has died."

"How?"

"Apparently, his heart failed in his sleep. The excitement of the events of that night at the Department of Mysteries had weakened his old and withered heart. He merely went to bed the following day and never woke up; he did not suffer."

"Pity," Harry said. His hands were clenched in the bed sheets so that his knuckles glowed white. He felt his blood pound in his ears and he tasted the sour tang of bile in his mouth. The desire to vomit was strong. _Sirius' traitor. That little vermin deserved a more painful death! Sniveling, evil, nasty, back-stabbing piece of-- _

"You mustn't upset yourself so, Harry," Dumbledore said carefully. "I understand your feelings about Kreacher, and you are perfectly justified in your resentment. But I must stress that you not let your anger affect you to the degree that it escalates _beyond your own control_. That will only lead to physical and mental exhaustion, and that is the last thing you need right now."

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled, forcing his hands to relax in his lap.

Dumbledore smiled and then stated, "On a brighter note, you will be pleased to hear that Cornelius Fudge has been replaced by Rufus Scrimgeour as Minister of Magic. One of his first rules of business, as new Minister, was to officially pardon Sirius and to proclaim his innocence and heroism in the newspapers."

Harry's breath became lodged in his lungs. He blinked rapidly as tears threatened to escape his eyes.

"I understand, Harry, that this may be a small consolation," Dumbledore spoke very gently. "But know that Sirius has gained the recognition and respect from most all witches and wizards, and not just those who knew him personally. It is only what he deserves."

"Sirius deserves to be here to enjoy it!" Harry hissed venomously, unable to stop himself.

"Of course he does." Once again, that ever so patient voice countered Harry's emotions. Those blue eyes were shining with understanding and sympathy. "But he isn't here, and we have to endure the situation as it is. Pardoning Sirius and exposing him as the true hero that he was is one of the best things that we can do for him after his departure from this world. Furthermore, we can do him a greater honor by remembering what he believed in and continuing our lives as he would have wanted us to."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Harry--"

"No! I don't want to talk about this anymore!" Harry shouted and then he did something very childish—he covered both of his ears with his hands, trying to block out any further words that Dumbledore had to say. He had seen Dudley do this to his parents countless times.

The Headmaster merely leaned back in his chair and studied Harry with sad eyes. Harry forced himself to stare at the dark wooden beams of the ceiling for several minutes, until his arms grew tired from holding his hands up.

As he lowered them, Dumbledore shifted towards Harry and placed a cool, aged hand on his forearm. "I will not force you to talk about this right now, when you are clearly not ready. However, I do intend to discuss this with you in the near future. It does not have to be today or tomorrow, but we do need to talk about this sometime, Harry. You need to heal."

They didn't discuss the matter anymore as Dumbledore summoned Minty to bring them both lunch. Dumbledore finished an entire bowl of chicken noodle soup as well as two slices of toast, but Harry simply picked at his food. After it was clear that Harry was not going to consume more than a third of his soup and a few nibbles of toast, Dumbledore gave Harry both of his strengthening potions and insisted that Harry get some much-needed rest.

When Harry was alone and curled up on his side, facing towards the dark curtains—like a veil—that covered the window, he said quietly but firmly to himself, "Sirius is alive."

And with that desperate affirmation, Harry drifted off to sleep, hoping that Sirius would greet him in his dreams again.

* * *

The week passed by slowly and calmly. Dumbledore kept Harry on a tight schedule. He would wake up every morning, eat breakfast, shower, eat lunch, nap and read, eat dinner, and then go to bed for the night. It was a boring, tedious schedule, and Harry grew frustrated that his strength was so slow to return.

Indeed, it wasn't until the fifth day after his return to consciousness that he was able to walk to the bathroom unassisted, without the aid of Dumbledore's arm or Minty's levitation spell.

Harry couldn't forget the morning when Dumbledore announced that his school things would be arriving shortly from the Dursleys' residence. Not one second later, the fireplace in Harry's room flared green and his trunk flew out, landing beside his bed with a loud thud. Hedwig's empty cage soon followed. Surprisingly, all of his school supplies were packed neatly and tightly into his trunk, even the ones that were hidden under his floorboards. Harry tried to imagine the expression on the Dursley's faces when his possessions zoomed out of his bedroom and into the living room fireplace. He hoped they were frightened.

Sleeping was difficult for him. He often sat awake, trembling. His body was extremely tired, yet his dreams interrupted his sleep constantly. Sirius kept calling out to him and Harry would repeatedly jerk awake, filled with both adrenaline and frustration, too bewildered and desperate to fall back asleep. He kept getting a feeling that something extremely significant was approaching, something that he needed to be prepared for, but what was it?

His back hurt from being in bed so much. Minty came in twice a day to teach him yoga stretches to relieve cramped muscles. It helped a little, but not enough to make a huge difference. The house-elf would blather on about how great Dumbledore was and how her entire line of house-elves had served the Dumbledore family. Harry liked Minty, but she would become annoying to him extremely quickly. He liked to expose himself to her in small doses. Often, he would pretend to fall asleep in order to encourage her to leave him alone.

Dumbledore insisted that Harry spend his free time writing to his friends, but Harry ended up only posting a few bland, brief letters. He didn't reveal any details in his messages, simply that he was fine and was keeping out of trouble. He only read a few sentences from his friends' correspondences and then quickly lost interest.

Hedwig's presence was fairly soothing to him, however, and he looked forward to her visits. She always helped Harry eat his meals. By giving her scraps, Harry could hide how little he was eating from Minty and Dumbledore. She would sit on his knee while he fed her bread crusts and bits of chicken, and she would pipe softly as he traced the outlines of each of her silky pearl feathers. Hedwig understood him. Hedwig _listened_.

The Headmaster visited Harry several times a day. Sometimes he would chatter on about some of the work that he was doing. Dumbledore spent a lot of time corresponding to parents of his students in regards to the "Voldemort situation" and offering his assurances that Hogwarts was well-protected.

The Ministry of Magic was also in close contact with Dumbledore. Ministry owls flew in at least eight times a day, asking for Dumbledore's advice on how to strengthen the security of the wizarding world. Dumbledore often wrote his replies in Harry's presence, while sitting in a silk-cushioned chair in Harry's room, a long roll of brown parchment on his lap.

Harry reckoned that Dumbledore pitied him and wanted to keep him occupied during his term of bed rest. Sometimes, he brought in a chess set and he and Harry would play. Harry always lost quickly. He knew that he should be appreciative of Dumbledore's concern for him, but instead he felt exasperated by it. Dumbledore tried to bring up the subject of the prophecy and of Sirius at least twice, but Harry brushed off all of his attempts with a quick question about the Order, or an occasional, "can't we talk about this some other time? I don't feel very well right now."

On the night before his sixth day of bed rest, Harry was feeling particularly ill. His temples throbbed and there was a pressure behind his skull. It took a while for him to fall asleep.

* * *

A_ full moon hung in the sky, its bony light bathing the countryside in its nuclear glare. Harry Potter's shadow loped across the bleached grass, its strides purposeful and swift. A strange sort of exhilaration flooded him, juicing his veins with crisp alertness. Crickets trilled from the nearby thickets and an owl hooted curiously from an adjacent oak. Harry ignored them all, intent on reaching the wooden country gate that was nestled between far stretching ridges of stone. Indeed, just beyond Dumbledore's stone wall, Harry could be free to find Sirius. He knew where he had to go. He was almost there!_

Abruptly, it started raining and Harry jerked violently, opening his eyes. He cried out in shock: it wasn't a dream! He was actually standing outside in the front yard of Dumbledore's house and the gate was only twenty feet away. Dare he make a run for it?

Harry stood there awhile, pondering how angry Dumbledore would be if he left the area to go to the Department of Mysteries.

A hand fell on his shoulder. He whipped around.

Dumbledore was standing there, an umbrella in his hand. A lantern floated alongside him, bobbing up and down in the wet, night air. Harry expected him to be furious. Instead he saw sadness and puzzlement crease the Headmaster's parchment face. Harry watched his lips move amidst that snowy beard, but he couldn't hear any words because there was a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He wondered how Dumbledore found him out here. Didn't he ever sleep? Or, perhaps the portraits alerted the wizard that Harry was out of bed.

Harry realized that rainwater had run into his mouth and he swallowed. He was soaking wet and chilled to the bone. Dumbledore shifted the enormous umbrella so that it shielded Harry from the rain as well as himself. Abruptly, the ringing in the teen's ears ceased and the world's sounds engulfed his senses. A jolt of pain stabbed his scar for barely a second.

"Harry? Are you all right?"

"Yeah."

"Why are you out here?"

"I—I don't really know sir. I think I was sleepwalking."

"Listen to me, Harry. This is very important. Did you experience a dream tonight?"

Harry suddenly felt his body grow uncomfortably hot. If he wasn't already drenched in precipitation, he was sure he would be sweating. He would have to lie again. He would have to lie to Dumbledore although he knew Dumbledore could see through all of his fabrications. The Headmaster was one of the only ones who believed in him last year. How many lies would Harry have to tell in order to lose his trust?

"I don't remember any dream tonight, sir." Harry said, and then flinched. The words popped out of his mouth a little too quickly, a little too defensively.

Dumbledore gazed at the youth for a long, uncomfortable moment, his eyes pensive and sharp. He said very quietly, very gently. "All right, Harry. Let's go inside."

And they walked together across the lawn. Harry tried to take in as much of his dark surroundings as he could. The only things that he had viewed in the past week were the contents of his bedroom, the hallway, the bathroom, and the backs of his own eyelids. He squinted through the sheets of rain. Was that a grove of trees to his left? That large dark patch smeared on the lawn to his right could be a small pond. It looked like molten charcoal, with its pitch-colored waters and pock-like pores scattered all over its surface, indented from the onslaught of rain drops.

At last they reached the front door and Dumbledore ushered him inside. Harry spotted the stairs and hurried toward them, so he could return to his bedroom, but Dumbledore said, "In here, Harry." The old wizard was standing at the doorway to the parlor. The orange blaze of the fireplace glowed behind him. Harry resignedly followed Dumbledore into the warm room, his sneakers squishing on every step.

The parlor was very cheerful. A fluffy rug made from a creature Harry did not recognize sprawled in the middle of the hardwood floor. A series of plush sofas, ottomans, and armchairs formed a half-moon circle around the crackling fireplace. Harry suddenly received a mental image of Dumbledore as a boy, sitting in front of the fire, listening as his father recited wizard tales from long ago. Tapestries of witches or wizards engaging in councils and confrontations alike adorned the walls. A tall window revealed the moon's muffled glimmer from behind gauze-like clouds. Outside, the rain had diminished to a mere drizzle.

Harry barely noticed that Dumbledore had withdrawn his wand from his robes and had waved it in his direction. At once, Harry's clothes became warm and dry. "Thanks," he said.

Dumbledore smiled and invited him to sit down. Harry sank onto a tawny-colored sofa and rubbed at a grass stain on his pajamas. His comfort level soon plummeted as Dumbledore chose the seat right next to Harry.

For a moment or two, the Headmaster merely gazed into the fireplace, seeming to measure his words carefully. Then he turned towards Harry, lacing his fingers in his lap. Harry held his breath.

"I believe you know what I want to discuss with you tonight, Harry. I only ask that you hear me out. We have avoided this topic for too long and I insist that this deliberate game of evasion ends now. Delay can only hurt you more, I'm afraid."

Harry didn't respond. He fixed his eyes on the rug, wishing that he could somehow be absorbed into its turquoise and gold fur.

Dumbledore must have taken Harry's silence for assent, for he continued speaking. "I have not turned a blind eye towards your behavior this week, Harry. I know that you have not been eating or sleeping as much as your body requires. Your illness has passed, and your appetite should have returned a few days ago, and yet you still cannot find it in your heart to take care of yourself."

The wizard's voice was full of such sorrow that Harry's stomach clenched guiltily. This was worse than hearing Dumbledore yell at him. Why was he so worried about him? He was safe from Voldemort for the time being, so why didn't Dumbledore just leave him alone?

"Furthermore," Dumbledore continued, "you have not shown interest in your friends, the Order, or any activities that have been presented to you. You spend much of your time brooding or staring at dust particles on the floor, which cannot be very entertaining. You have not asked me anything concerning your future and the prophecy. You avoid talking about Sirius."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Dumbledore shook his head.

"Allow me to finish, Harry. I am not pointing these things out to scold you, but I am trying to illustrate the kinds of behavior I have seen from you this past week. I do not even know if you yourself are aware of the ways in which you have been spending your time. I must impress upon you that these patterns of behavior are symptomatic of depression, Harry.

"I cannot allow you to continue your trek down this road. It is painful to watch you suffer so. I am only grateful that your friends cannot see you as you are now, for I am certain that they will feel just as much distress as I feel from watching you fade away."

_That stung._ Harry felt his eyes well with tears and he quickly stared at the ceiling, willing the burning liquid glass in his eyes to trickle back into their tear ducts.

"I have spoken my part, Harry, and now it is my turn to listen."

A thick silence filled the air. One minute passed, then three minutes. It felt like three years to Harry.

Dumbledore exhaled softly through his nose. He reached over to Harry and rested his hand on the teen's shoulder. His snowy eyebrows knitted slightly at the feel of the sharp clavicles pressed against his hand, as though he was touching a delicate ivory tusk instead of a collarbone. He needed to start giving Harry concentrated nutritional potions. Otherwise, Harry was well on his way to developing nutrition-related health problems, such as juvenile osteoporosis or anemia.

He squeezed the boy's shoulder very gently. "Would it be easier for you to talk if I ask you some questions?"

Harry shook his head vehemently, his eyes pinched shut.

"I cannot help you if you will not tell me what is hurting you so, Harry."

"I know, sir, but I can't tell you."

Dumbledore nodded his head, and then said, "Would you prefer me to have Remus or Mr. and Mrs. Weasley or Ron and Hermione come over to speak with you?"

Harry visibly clenched. "No sir. I can't face them now. I can't. I just…I just…need to be alone. I can't talk to them; they wouldn't understand."

"You need to talk to somebody, Harry. And I believe that your friends will understand far more than you realize. After all, you have confided in them many times before this and have not been met with ridicule or abandonment. How can this instance be any different?"

"No!" Harry said, louder than he had intended. He was on his feet now, debating whether he should make a run for his room. "I am not talking about this, and you cannot make me either."

Harry knew that he was sounding very childish and also that Dumbledore probably _could _make him talk with extreme ease. What would it take? Just two drops of veritaserum dribbled in his morning porridge. Or perhaps he didn't need to talk at all for Dumbledore to know about his communications with Sirius. All the wizard would have to do is cast _Legilimens _on him. He was probably as good as Snape at mind-reading. He was probably even better than him. Harry quickly tore his eyes away from Dumbledore's calm face and stared out the window instead. It had stopped raining all together, but the wind was howling like a banshee.

_No, Dumbledore wouldn't extract information from you by force, _that annoying, reasonable voice in Harry's mind said shrewdly. _He only does that to criminals. You're not a criminal. Besides, he cares about you too much._

Harry visibly relaxed. However, he did not sit down. He still felt cornered and desperate. He didn't want to talk; he knew that Dumbledore couldn't know about the dreams. He would try to stop Harry from helping Sirius. He would thwart him, and then his godfather would be lost forever.

"Please sit down, Harry."

Harry sat, but refused to look at his Headmaster.

"I do not know what else I can do to help you, if you will not willingly talk to me or someone else."

"Why should I?" Harry murmured. "Why do I have to talk? Why can't I just keep it to myself?"

"You raise a good point, Harry. Why should anyone speak out about his feelings? My answer to you is that it is all right to hold your emotions within you, if it does not impair the way you live your life. Your behavior is not reflective of a healthy individual. This withdrawal and depression is harmful for you and it must stop. Bottling your emotions has not benefited you in the slightest, Harry. You are not the first person to have suffered from suppressed feelings, nor are you the last, but it is still something that must not continue. I guarantee that you will feel better once you release these trapped thoughts and emotions."

Harry was silent. He risked a view of Dumbledore's face and saw that it was filled with remorse.

"I can see that my own words and actions have not been accommodating to you at all, Harry, and for that I am very sorry. I regret all of the burdens that you have suffered throughout your life; however, I do not regret telling you the prophecy when I had. That is a burden that would be more damaging to you if you were ignorant of it. It was something that you needed to know as soon as possible despite the fact that I was reluctant to bear such ill tidings. You will have to face the prophecy sooner or later, Harry, and I assure you that I am willing to listen to your questions at any time, day or night. In the meantime, I hope to relieve you of some of your boredom and melancholy. I understand that you have felt cooped up this week, with your illness and extensive bed rest. Perhaps it will be beneficial for you if we go on a holiday, a trip, for a day or two."

Harry looked up at Dumbledore in confusion.

"Your sixteenth birthday is in three days, Harry, and I would like this birthday to be a good one for you. I am willing to take you wherever you would like. Within limits—it must be in Great Britain. Does this sound amenable to you? What would you like to do? Would you like to see your friends?"

Harry was silent for several seconds. All he wanted to do was see Sirius; he didn't care about anything else. His heart leapt in his throat. He swallowed once and voiced in what he hoped was a mildly curious voice.

"I was wondering sir, if I could see the Ministry of Magic again."

Dumbledore shot Harry a quizzical look. "Is this what you truly want, Harry?"

Harry nodded.

"And what would you like to do at the Ministry, Harry?" Dumbledore asked; his voice was low and cautious.

Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle in dismay at Dumbledore's clear suspicion, but hastily covered for himself.

"I—I never really got a full tour of it…when I went with Mr. Weasley for my hearing, that is. It's just another part of the wizarding world that I don't know much about, and I feel that I should know what the ministry is really like, in case I ever want to have a job there."

"As an Auror?" Dumbledore asked shrewdly.

"How did you know about that?"

"Professor McGonagall told me, Harry. As Headmaster, it is my duty to know about all of the students' career aspirations. I write letters of recommendation for many and I try to help them be accepted into the programs that their careers require. It is one of the many rewards of my position, you see, to watch students thrive in the professional world. I wish that all of my pupils could be successful."

Harry tried to hold an innocently curious expression on his face, to try to hide the eagerness that was bubbling up from within him. _I can go to the Veil. I can get Sirius._

"Very well, Harry. I will make the proper arrangements. But I must warn you that we may have to disguise you. Your celebrity status has heightened exponentially since Voldemort's return has been made public. It will be difficult to show you the ins and outs of the ministry without witches and wizards flocking around you and asking questions."

"Thank you, sir," Harry whispered.

"You're welcome, Harry. And--" he hesitated, searching Harry with his blue eyes. "Are you certain that this is what you wholeheartedly want for your birthday?"

"Yes, Professor, I am certain."

"Very well, Harry. Then I expect you to return to bed now and get some sleep. Your room is in the second hallway on the left at the top of the stairs, third door on the right."

Harry hurriedly left Dumbledore in the parlor, and didn't release the breath that he had been holding until he was well out of sight. When he reached his room, he climbed into bed and thought eagerly about his birthday in three days' time. He felt slightly guilty for deceiving Dumbledore, for making him think that Harry wanted to go to the Ministry for a purpose related to a future career. All he wanted was to rescue Sirius from the Department of Mysteries. Then they would be reunited, Sirius could help him with the prophecy, and everything would be all right again. His life wouldn't be meaningless anymore.

But Harry could not wait until his birthday.

* * *

That night, he had dreamed again. In his dream, Sirius had told him that there was no time to waste. His voice kept growing fainter and fainter. Harry couldn't help but get the impression that Sirius was slipping away from him each day that he postponed his rescue.

As Harry sat up in bed, sweat coating his skin and his scar flaring in pain, he realized that he would have to take action now.

When he had walked to his bedroom earlier, after Dumbledore dismissed him from the parlor on the lower floor, Harry couldn't help but glance into some of the rooms. One of the rooms that was located in a hallway that ran parallel to Harry's corridor contained what appeared to be an office. There was a huge fireplace within and Harry was pretty certain that he had glimpsed a glass jar with Floo powder resting on the mantel. Surely Dumbledore, an immensely important figure in the wizard world, would have his fireplace connected to the Ministry of Magic. Harry knew that this was his ticket.

It had seemed too good to be true when Dumbledore had consented to take Harry there on his birthday, but that was too far away from now, and Harry didn't think that Sirius could wait that long. He seemed to be holding on just for his godson, and Harry would forever hate himself if he let his godfather pass away from him a second time. Besides, how could Harry get away from Dumbledore's side during their trip to the Ministry? Surely Dumbledore wouldn't be stupid enough to allow Harry to walk alone into the Department of Mysteries, let alone the Death Chamber. No, he would have to leave now, in the dead of night. _Alone_.

He threw himself out of bed and dashed to the mahogany wardrobe, tearing it open. The only clothing that Harry had worn all week had been pajamas, so he would have to find some robes and shoes to wear. All he could find were full length wizard cloaks, though. Harry cursed his small stature and resolved to just go in his night clothes. Luckily, he found his filthy trainers in the corner of the wardrobe bottom. He quickly put them on and hurried out of the room.

He walked as softly as he could through the meandering hallways. On his way, he passed a full length bronze mirror that hung on a wall next to a potted plant. His reflection looked almost ghostly, his hair wild, his skin so pale that it seemed to be almost translucent. His eyes danced with an unearthly light, like a solar flare of the aurora borealis as it licks the atmosphere; his irises seemed to be illuminated with pale green and rose whirls. His cheekbones protruded more starkly than he had ever noticed before, curved like the frame of a harp. He knew that he should be alarmed by his spectral appearance, but he brushed his worries aside. Sirius would make him better. He needed to find him. He kept on walking, letting his feet carry him along the wooden flooring, until he found the room that he was looking for.

The grandfather clock in Dumbledore's office revealed that it was 3:49 in the morning. He would have to hurry, so that he could pull Sirius out of the veil, and remove themselves from the Ministry building before witches and wizards poured in for the normal work day. He wasn't sure where he and Sirius would go after they left the Ministry, but he knew that those particular details didn't matter right now. He dumped some Floo powder into his hand, spilling some on the floor in his haste. He threw it into the fire and stepped in, saying, "Ministry of Magic!"

As he spun around wildly while waiting for the correct grate, he vaguely recalled that he didn't have his wand on him. He realized that he didn't care much. He didn't really need it, after all; Sirius would guide him.

Harry shot out of a fireplace and into the Ministry atrium, just as he'd hoped. He raised himself from the polished floor and quickly brushed himself off, looking around at his surroundings. The Atrium had an eerie stillness to it. The only other occupant was the old security desk guard at the end of the room, and he was keeled over at the table top, snoring loudly. Harry dashed to the lift and punched the ninth level. As the lift began to move, he tapped his foot impatiently and tugged at his pajama collar. His heart was pounding in his throat, his palms were sweating. A buzzing sensation engulfed his brain, and he wondered if this was Sirius' anticipation or his own that he was feeling.

When the lift came to a stop at last, Harry dashed out and sprinted down the long, dark corridor towards the black door at the end. It automatically opened for him and he was once again in the circular room with several identical spinning doors.

"Where are you, Sirius?" he called, and a tingling sensation ran from his head and down his arm. He raised his hand as warmth engulfed his fingers and the doors ceased their rotation. A door to his left flew open and Harry rushed inside.

He was in the Death Chamber. The tiered steps were like a funnel beckoning him towards the centered dais, where the veil fluttered tantalizingly. Harry fought down the lump in his throat and suddenly he was not in such a hurry anymore. His legs felt heavy and they shook with every halting step he took down the stairs. His mind was so fuzzy that the pressure was threatening to overwhelm him. His scar throbbed constantly, but he pushed the pain aside. He could hear the whispers from within the ebony curtain. They tickled his ears with murmurs of promises to come. Harry was now on the dais, a few feet from the decrepit arch. It looked like some great ancient relic, like the Roman coliseum or the Egyptian pyramids, except it was so fragile that it could crumble into dust in a second, forever trapping its secrets away. His legs buckled so that he was kneeling on the stone floor.

"Sirius," he whispered, a few tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "I'm here."

"_You've found me_," a voice penetrated his mind, just like in his dream.

"I miss you, Sirius," Harry said, his voice muffled and thick. His hands trembled and he quickly stuffed them between his knees. "How can I get you out of there? Tell me what to do!"

"_Come closer, Harry. You have to come closer_." The voice was insistent, urgent, and Harry shifted forward obediently, still on his knees. The pressure in his head grew stronger; he was aware of blood trickling out of his nose, but found that he didn't care.

He could see a pattern to the fluttering veil now. A shape was forming among the dark folds. It was as though the wind had materialized into the visage of a human face that was imprinted into the mysterious cloth. He could see a forehead and eyes, a nose, lips, chin and cheek molded into the fabric, as though a cast of Sirius' face was being pressed out of the curtain. It was the same face that stood beside his own father's at his parents' wedding, that was haggard and filled with worry on the night of the Third Task, and that was filled with shock and fear last month, just before it was enveloped within that treacherous archway. Harry wanted to pull Sirius out, to see those features in the flesh and not as an imprint, a shrouded mask. A curve of a smile seemed to grow on the molded face, and Harry couldn't help but grin back.

The unearthly breeze then rippled Sirius' visage out of the veil and Harry gasped in dismay.

"Wait!" he called. "Come back! Don't go, please!"

His scar flamed again and he gritted his teeth. "Sirius!" he called. "Tell me how to bring you back!"

And then the voice was inside his head again, trembling within the pressure of his consciousness.

"_You know how, Harry. All you have to do is reach._"

Harry's vision grew sharper, more acute behind his glasses. He could suddenly see every stitch of fabric in the veil, every shadow that shifted within the fold, like smoke curling from a pile of ashes. He was inches away; he could feel the breeze tickle his face. A rushing sound surrounded him. The sudden desire to touch the veil overwhelmed him. He wanted to feel its velvet texture on his skin. If he just pushed the curtain aside, he could grasp Sirius. His godfather was right there; he could sense him. He could draw him out of there.

A strange sensation seized his body and he felt his body tip forward.

He raised a trembling hand and reached.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger. I already have chapter six well-formed, so hopefully it won't take me long to get the next one up. Thank you so much for all of your reviews; they certainly keep me going!**

**Kittyrunner**


	6. Catharsis

**Disclaimer:** All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of J.K. Rowling, and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

**A/N:** I'm sorry for the delay on this one. My summer turned out to be much busier than I had anticipated, what with working 40 hours a week, taking 2 summer classes, and training for cross country, I hardly had enough time to sleep, let alone write. I hope you enjoy this chapter! As a warning, this is probably the angstiest thing I have ever written in my life:)

* * *

**Harry Potter and the Time of Transition**

Chapter 6

_Catharsis_

Albus Dumbledore awoke with a start. Something was not right.

He hurried out of bed, drawing his wand from his night stand in the process, and reaching for his boots and black traveling cloak. He rushed to Harry's bedroom and was unsurprised to see that his ward was not there. He berated himself for not putting tighter restrictions on the boy once he had known Harry was experiencing bouts of sleepwalking.

He couldn't explain how he knew that something was amiss when he had first woken up. The same thing had occurred when he found Harry outside in his pajamas, soaking wet and standing near the gate. No portraits had warned him, no alarms had sounded; he just _knew_. It was some kind of precognition, much like how parents would sometimes wake, knowing that their child was ill or experiencing a nightmare long before he or she would cry out.

The wizard spared a glance outside the window. The sky was getting paler, like a mosaic of smeared sapphire and rose glowing above flickering candlelight. Dawn was approaching.

Dumbledore cast a quick tracing spell, and a pale blue light illuminated a path that streaked down several corridors and into his office. The trail ended at the fireplace.

There was Floo powder on the floor.

_Oh dear_…

* * *

Harry kept his eyes wide open as he reached toward the veil, not even noticing the stream of blood trickling from his nostrils. _He was so close_.

This was it. He was going to bring back Sirius. It seemed as though everything in his life was leading up to this moment, this great feat he was going to perform. He would prove everyone wrong. Those behind the Veil weren't really dead; they were just locked away from the living, waiting for someone to free them.

A cold gasp of shiny air from behind whipped over his left shoulder, but did not flutter the curtain. His fingertips quivered as he stretched them toward the fabric.

His hand never grasped it.

Instead, his fingers met a smooth, invisible barrier that separated him from the dark cloth. It would have been completely transparent except for the occasional ripple that fluttered through the air in front of him. Harry pushed hard. The material would not budge. It was like smooth, hard plastic that couldn't be torn, a clear egg shell that couldn't be cracked, as solid as a glacier, cold and unmelting. He was trapped in some oily bubble, like a prison. He continued to punch at the invisible wall, ignoring the bruising on his knuckles. His frantic mind made the connection between the breeze that passed over him moments earlier and the solid impediment that was blocking him from his Godfather.

_Sirius, _Harry thought. _Help me!_

"You cannot break through to him, Harry."

Harry ignored the voice and kept on pounding at the barrier. His scar stung sharply. He was on his feet now, backing up, and then throwing his shoulder at the obstruction.

"He cannot come back, Harry. You cannot bring him back. He is dead. You know this."

Harry was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of déjà vu. He remembered Lupin's voice telling him that Sirius couldn't come back. Lupin had pulled him away, had tried to stop him from rescuing Sirius. _But not this time_.

His scar gave off a particularly nasty spasm. He howled, turning around in his rage and pain.

Seeing his Headmaster approach, serene and impassive, rankled him.

"Don't stop me, Dumbledore!" Harry yelled, quite beside himself. "I can get him! You don't know it, but I do! I've been talking to Sirius for a couple of weeks now. It's him, I know it is!" His voice was straining in his throat. His muscles were taut and ready for motion. He had to make Dumbledore understand. He had to make him lower that shield.

"Was Sirius really in contact with you, or was it Voldemort?"

"What?" Harry asked, incensed. "It couldn't have been Voldemort! It was more real than that. It was my Godfather and no one else could have invented him!"

"Yet Voldemort has created an illusory vision before now about your Godfather, Harry. This happened a little over a month ago."

"But that was different!"

"Can you be certain of this? Are you aware of all the ways in which the mind can be manipulated? Do you know of all Voldemort's resources, the extent of Dark Magic that he possesses?"

Harry was silent. He could not dredge up a response.

The Headmaster was standing with his wand held loosely at his side, looking odd in a dressing gown, night cap, and slippers. His face looked tired and sad.

"How many dangerous confrontations have you endured, Harry? Surely you must be aware of the depths to which Voldemort will go to kill you."

"Yeah, but--"

"That he will never rest until you are dead."

"I know this already, but--"

"That he is continuously plotting new ways to ensnare you."

"THIS ISN'T VOLDEMORT WHO CALLED ME HERE—IT'S SIRIUS!"

"If you would have reached into the Arch, you would have died."

Harry shook his head vehemently, glaring at the wizard who was facing him, at that calm face, the bright blue eyes. No twinkle today.

"If you would have touched the Veil, you would have died."

"No."

"You are literally inches away from death, Harry, as you stand there."

"How can you be sure?" Harry asked. He didn't want to consider Dumbledore's words for a second if he didn't have any proof. _After all, Dumbledore could be making it all up, just to stop me from rescuing Sirius, _he though savagely.

"Your nose is bleeding. Your body is already hemorrhaging slightly from its proximity to the Veil."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Harry felt as though his heart skipped a beat. _It can't be true_. He reached a hand up to touch his upper lip, then reeled back, horrified by the crimson wetness on his fingers. There had to be another explanation. _Sirius will help me. It's just a little nosebleed, isn't it?_

"Harry--"

"I don't want to listen to you anymore! Just go away and leave me alone!"

"No."

Harry was panting now, his heart thudding in his chest so hard it was painful. Blood rushed in his ears and he wanted to throw things at Dumbledore, to make him leave. He began to pace around the Veil, running his hands along the barrier, occasionally punching at it to search for holes or weaknesses.

Dumbledore's spell was impenetrable.

"You cannot break through, Harry. Please step down."

Harry wheeled around. "I SAID GO AWAY!"

"I'm afraid that is not a possibility, dear boy."

"Then let me go!" Harry decided to try a new tactic. "Please, sir, I don't know how to explain it, but I know that I can bring Sirius back. I can save his life! You've always believed in me before, why can't you trust me now? Please lower the shield. I won't be hurt; please let me do this."

"It will not work, Harry. You would die before you could truly begin to live."

"It can't—no." Harry was still shaking his head, but he took a small step away from the black curtain. "How do you know?"

"Because this Veil has been here for centuries and no one has ever returned once they touched it. It was not Sirius who was in contact with you."

"Prove it."

"Voldemort has been sending you those dreams. He created figments of your Godfather to persuade you to come here. He manipulated the link you share with him, through your scar, in such a way that you became obsessed with the idea of coming here to bring Sirius back. You most likely encountered scar pain in connection with your dreams, but either took no notice or simply didn't care about its possible implications. You have endured so much pain from your scar in the past that it is no wonder that you are slightly desensitized to it now."

Harry unconsciously reached up to rub at his scar.

"The fact that you are here, wandless and vulnerable is sufficient evidence that you are not thinking clearly and that someone else is exerting some degree of control over you. Coming here tonight in your current state, without any support or method of defense was extremely foolhardy. Sirius would not have been capable of providing such a severe quantity of risk for you. And that is all the proof you need, Harry."

"What do you mean?" he whispered.

"If it had been Sirius who was communicating with you, would he have wanted to lure you to such peril?"

Harry was breathing heavily, a sickening feeling creeping into his stomach.

"You mean—you mean—this was Voldemort again? The whole time I thought that Sirius was reaching out to me?"

A strange pressure, and then a release echoed in his skull, like a bubble bursting with a sharp _POP! _He heard a distant echo of a high-pitched shout of rage and hatred. At once his head felt sharper, more awake.

He could see Dumbledore and himself in a new light now. They weren't opponents trying to thwart one another, nor were they professor and student. They were merely two exhausted wizards, clad only in their pajamas and facing each other in silence on a dais in the Department of Mysteries. The only background sound was the faint whispering beyond the black veil. _The Veil…_

Harry felt his heart stutter behind his rib cage. A sensation formed in his gut, a tight, cold feeling as though he was hollow inside. Suddenly, the initial pain of losing Sirius seemed to return, except it was increased tenfold. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. He imagined his godfather being swallowed up by that veil inch by inch, slowly and painfully. His godfather's frightened face, which was once so brave, so fearless, and so bright, was devoured by that coarse, ragged curtain.

Harry screamed.

And then Dumbledore was there, pulling him tight against his side. He was saying something, but Harry couldn't tell what it was. His words fell on deaf ears, ears that were ringing with his own howls of agony. His jaw muscles locked as they expelled the great roar of sound that made his knees quake. Hot tears gushed out of his eyes, his nostrils. It coated his tongue and teeth, clear and salty. It flooded his mouth too, an ocean of bitterness welling up inside him.

He felt his body being gently pulled away from the Veil and out of the Death Chamber. He was hardly aware of his own footfalls or his surroundings. It was all a hazy wash of sensation, muted in the presence of his amplified grief. They had reached the rotating room now. The movement was becoming too much for him. He wanted to lie down and scream and scream until his own throat disintegrated and he had no voice anymore.

His keens continued puncturing the eerie void all around him. Dumbledore made no effort to quiet him. Instead, he offered a steady arm around his back.

Harry didn't care how ridiculous and childish he sounded. He didn't care that he was in the Ministry of Magic, where important governing officials could hear and see him. But most of all, he didn't care that he was The Boy Who Lived, an icon of hope and stability to the wizarding world. All that mattered to him was that Sirius was truly gone, ripped from him and dangled in front of him by Voldemort like some worm on a hook. Harry was to be the big catch of the day. _He used Sirius to bait me…again_.

At one point, Harry planted his feet onto the floor, refusing to move forward. Dumbledore applied more pressure, but Harry wouldn't budge, curling his fingers around a doorframe, digging into the wooden crevices. Choking sobs wrenched out of his body now, between his screams. Dumbledore murmured something into Harry's ear, as long fingers gently loosened his grip. Harry acquiesced and let Dumbledore pull him along, hardly aware that his own feet dragged and Dumbledore was supporting most of his weight.

They were in the lift now and Harry felt trapped, claustrophobic. He didn't want to be there. He wanted to be someplace secluded, away from all wizards, Muggles, and creatures alike. He wanted to be alone with his grief. The hope and excitement he had felt when he thought that Sirius had been in contact with him was stabbing his veins. He could have been with Sirius; they could have been happy. His cries sharpened in intensity and Dumbledore tightened his grip. Harry barely felt it. His nerve endings beneath his skin felt frayed, numb, but his heart was on fire; he couldn't breathe properly.

A tiny, far-off voice emerged from the recesses of his mind, telling him that he sounded like a madman and if he stopped wailing, he wouldn't feel so awful. _Maybe I'm crying because I feel bad, all right?_ Harry fired back, angry at the sensible, cool portion of his subconscious that wasn't strong enough when he needed it most.

As the elevator slid to a halt, and the grilles swept open, Harry tried to contain his weeping. They were in the Atrium again. Harry gazed with bleary eyes at his surroundings. The security guard was gawping at him and Dumbledore.

"What are you looking at?" Harry tried to yell, but instead a fresh wave of sobs hit him and he doubled over.

"This way, Harry. We're almost there," he heard Dumbledore say. The mage reached into his cloak and withdrew a glittering handful of dust. Dumbledore tossed it into the fire, stated firmly, "Sugarplum Poplar", and pulled Harry into the flames with him.

Harry had never done side-by-side Floo travel before. The dizzy ride as well as his pounding head and blurred vision caused him an intense bout of vertigo. He turned his face into Dumbledore's side, pressing into the soft fabric. He tried to will himself to simply disappear, to vanish from existence. The grates whipped past like flashes of firecrackers that were exploding too near.

He was barely aware when Dumbledore pulled him out of the fireplace and they were now moving through corridors and to Harry's room.

"Here, Harry. Sit down." Dumbledore eased him onto the bed and Harry lay back, still crying soundly.

He had never felt so overwhelmed with emotions before. The pain from his grief and anger wracked his body with spasms, wringing every last drop of liquid from his eyes. His voice was hoarse now, weaker.

It seemed that as soon as Voldemort's presence had dissipated from his mind at the Ministry, it was replaced by the rawest mire of intense feeling.

Dumbledore left the room, his robe swishing behind him. Harry was alone. A fresh sob squeezed out of his already sore throat and he clenched the bed sheets with his hands. He was always alone. It was his fate. No one could look after him anymore. He was a burden to everyone. Even Dumbledore couldn't handle him, couldn't keep him contained, couldn't protect him from Voldemort.

Harry was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't even hear Dumbledore when he re-entered the room. The next thing he knew was the sensation of a soft, damp cloth being carefully wiped across his face. The gesture was so sweet, so paternal, so foreign, and yet at the same time so welcoming that Harry couldn't help but cry harder. The gentle motions of the cloth stopped and Harry was aware of Dumbledore sitting on a chair beside his bed, murmuring quiet words to him. Harry couldn't make out the sounds above his own noise. They were just puffs of air with low tones attached.

He felt his hand being enveloped by two larger, older ones. The tissue paper texture of Dumbledore's skin was soft and soothing. The Headmaster gently rubbed circles along Harry's forearm. The reverberation of this motion gave off a steady percussion alongside Dumbledore's murmuring voice. Harry felt himself beginning to calm.

He felt a bit uncomfortable by Dumbledore's nurturing, but at the same time, these kindly gestures were soothing to him. He imagined that it was Sirius holding his hand. That's the way it could have been if Voldemort hadn't…if he hadn't…

_No, _that calm voice in his mind asserted. _Sirius is dead, Harry. Voldemort sent you those dreams. He was trying to kill you. You almost died because of your gullibility._

Harry shut his eyes tightly, screwing up his face, ceasing his crying almost instantly. He couldn't continue on like this. He had to hold it in, to not show his weakness, swallowing his sobs. His chest was quaking with his pent-up grief.

Dumbledore had ceased his soothing motions on his arm, but his hand was now clasped between the old mage's two weathered ones again.

Harry forced down a sob that was threatening to explode out of him. His muscles clenched as he fought down his emotions and his back arched slightly off of the bed, a strangled sound wrenched his throat.

Dumbledore shook his head, eyes filling with tears. His wise and lined face bore such mournfulness that Harry couldn't stand to see it. It was almost as if Dumbledore could feel Harry's suffering as his own. Harry closed his eyes, biting his lip, a rushing sound in his ears.

"So much emotion, Harry. So much pain."

Harry tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, warm and coppery.

"It's time to let it go. Stop fighting what is only natural."

His body curled tightly. He compressed himself into a ball, so that all of his grief could spiral deep within and never surface again. He pushed his head against his knees, willing all of his thoughts to wither away.

"Relax, Harry, please. Allow yourself to grieve."

He drew in a shuddering breath, his ribs were aching from holding it all in. He wondered if he had turned blue in the face yet.

"You cannot move on with your life until you do so."

The owl lamp on the bedside table began to vibrate as Harry's trembling increased. It suddenly tipped over the edge and Dumbledore deftly caught it, setting it upright on the table in a single swooping motion.

Harry let out a low moan.

"It's alright, Harry. Sometimes in order to gain control, you must first lose it for a brief time."

Dumbledore stood up to leave, and Harry suddenly felt panicky. He felt so empty and hollow inside that the idea of being left alone seemed unbearable. Before he knew it, his hand shot out to seize Dumbledore's retreating robe. Dumbledore turned around. Harry was staring at him with a pleading look upon his face, his eyes shining and red-rimmed like maroon raccoon eyes.

The Headmaster wordlessly sat back down. Harry was laying on his stomach now, his face turned to the side away from Dumbledore. His hands kept twisting the bed sheets in his fingers. His shoulders and back were tense, his breathing tight. Dumbledore paused for a moment, and then laid his hand on Harry's back, rubbing gently. He tensed up again, but Dumbledore continued his ministrations, hoping that Harry could release all his grief and anger. It had been much easier to persuade Harry to let go of his feelings last June in his office. Now, he was a tightly-sprung box, ready to burst at the seams.

Before he knew it, Harry started crying again. His tears dampened the cotton pillow beneath him like raindrops being absorbed in warm earth.

Dumbledore didn't say a word. He just let him weep this time, all the while smoothing out the wrinkles on Harry's shirt, kneading tense muscles. His hands became very gentle as they ghosted over the back of Harry's xylophone ribcage, as hard and bony as a tortoise shell.

The Headmaster's elegant fingers sought out pressure points along Harry's back, pinching nerve endings, and deadening spasms. He rubbed along muscle knots, worrying them until they were smooth. He wanted Harry to be as relaxed as possible, to feel comfortable with his grief.

Once Harry became limp and was sobbing freely and sinking boneless into the pillow, Dumbledore retreated his ministrations. Instead, he just rested his hand on the teen's back to make it known that he was still there.

After a time, Harry began to quiet and his breathing evened out. At first Dumbledore thought that Harry had fallen asleep, but then Harry rolled over on his side and looked at him.

His face was flushed red, his eyes hollow and empty. He looked embarrassed. Dumbledore flashed him a smile as fleeting as a passing owl in the moonlight. It was a reassuring and understanding smile.

"I know of the pain you are feeling now, Harry. I understand that the last thing you would like to do is speak to someone. Please understand that you will feel much better once you do so. I am willing to listen any time you feel the need to talk."

Harry turned his face so he could look into those ocean-blue eyes, encased behind a sheen of half-moon glass, that face lined by wrinkles of rippled sand. At this moment, he saw Dumbledore not as his Headmaster, but as a simple man. His face looked so sad, so concerned, and almost desperate with worry.

Harry swallowed once, which sounded more like a squelchy gulp. He took two shuddering breaths, and then spoke brokenly.

"I don't know what's…_wrong_ with me…I don't know…why I can't control…my emotions." His voice was panting with the effort of speaking amidst his grief.

Dumbledore made a soothing sound and said, "There is nothing wrong with you, my dear boy."

"But I never cry like this! I'm cracking up!" A small sob escaped and he shook his head in frustration.

"Quite the contrary, Harry. You would be in far worse shape if you haven't had this _healthy_ breakdown. I am in fact astonished that this hasn't happened sooner after all you have been through. This catharsis, in fact, is a major step in your recovery."

"Recovery?" Harry frowned at that word. It made him feel like there was something wrong with him, as though he were a mental patient.

Dumbledore, sensing Harry's discomfort, quickly added, "You are not, nor have you ever been mad, Harry. After all of the trauma and stress you have experienced in these recent months, I am only referring to the natural healing process that must follow any horrible ordeal that a person experiences."

Harry felt a little better at this. He was quiet for a time except for the occasional sniffle that snuck away from him. But then his mind fell on his false dreams and the Veil.

"I can't believe this happened again…with _Sirius._" He whispered his Godfather's name so softly that he may have even mouthed it.

Dumbledore patted his hand.

"I thought that…I had hoped…"

"It is only natural to miss someone you've lost, Harry. It is not a weakness. Voldemort, however, preys upon emotion and with the pain of losing your Godfather so fresh, so raw within you, Voldemort took advantage of this vulnerability. He seized his chance."

Harry closed his eyes again.

"I am afraid that I couldn't discover what was happening to you until it was almost too late. I sincerely regret that I couldn't have helped you sooner."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've caused so much trouble."

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Harry, it is I who should be apologizing. I should have never let you be alone this summer after what had happened to you. I had thought Voldemort would not mentally attack you after his painful and failed possession of you last month. However, it seems as though Voldemort is becoming desperate."

A thrill of terror crept down Harry's spine.

"What can I do?" he whispered.

"Nothing, for now. Let me worry this time."

"I don't think I can sleep. What if it happens again?"

"I do not think Voldemort will attack you again today. We have thwarted him again and I think that he will need some time to formulate a new plan. Though, it may do you some good to have an induced sleep. It is very apparent that you have not been resting well. I do not have anymore sleeping potions here, but I can offer to put you into an Enchanted Sleep. It is stronger and more protected than normal sleep."

Harry nodded. "What time is it?" he asked, peering through the tiny sliver of light between the curtains.

Dumbledore consulted his pocket watch. "It is 6:30 in the morning. I suggest that you rest until the afternoon. Then I will wake you for tea."

Harry nodded glumly. His hands trembled slightly and his body grew tense as Dumbledore withdrew his wand from his pocket. Something about lying there, helpless, while someone pointed a wand at him, even if it was Dumbledore, made Harry feel uneasy. Dumbledore frowned at Harry's discomfort and placed the wand on the bedside table. The Headmaster tucked him in, pulling the blanket up to his chin and resting his hand atop his head.

Harry felt so overwhelmed with gratitude and warmth at Dumbledore's kindness. He felt guilty for being so rude and angry at him earlier in the week and also for what had happened in June.

"I'm sorry for smashing your office last month," he whispered.

Dumbledore's face grew slightly tight, his eyes watery, at that statement. "Thank you for your contrition, Harry, but there is no need to apologize. I understand why it happened. As I told you earlier, sometimes you must lose control, before you can gain it."

"I shouldn't have…I shouldn't…"

Dumbledore hushed him gently. "It's all right."

He pulled his wand off the nightstand and instructed Harry to close his eyes. Harry closed them rather apprehensively, but he relaxed once he felt Dumbledore's hand resting over his eyelids.

"It is a simple spell, Harry. You will only drift off gently. I will also cast protective charms on this room to alert me if you are disturbed in any way, both externally or internally. I will not put you to sleep if you do not want it, though I highly insist that you rest. You will feel better once you have done so."

Harry felt a sort of wonder that Dumbledore was asking for his permission, before he used this magic on him. The Headmaster seemed to be working so hard not to betray his trust and giving him a choice over everything.

"All right," Harry whispered. "Go ahead."

Dumbledore patted his hand and told him that he would see him in a few hours. Harry felt the tip of Dumbledore's wand touch his temple and a small whisper.

"_Somnus."_

The old wizard held Harry's hand for a few moments, until he fell asleep.

* * *

Dumbledore gazed at Harry a minute, at the gentle rise and fall of his chest, at his now-peaceful face. He removed Harry's glasses and then sank back into his chair, his face in his hands.

Harry had almost died. If he hadn't intercepted him in time, if he had only arrived one minute later, Harry would have been gone. It was difficult to even think about. He ran his hand through Harry's hair absentmindedly. It was damp with tears that had rolled into the strands.

Dumbledore felt his own eyes moisten. He retreated to his office and sat down, stroking his beard absentmindedly. He would have to train Harry. If Voldemort continued tormenting him, defenses would have to be built.

He looked up at a gentle brushing sound. Minty was sweeping up the Floo Powder from the floor. Dumbledore felt his nose twitch at the peppermint aroma. She gave a little curtsy and popped her gum, before asking, "Is Harry Potter sad?"

The ancient mage nodded his head slowly and sank into a chair.

"Is there anything Minty can do to help?"

"Not at the moment, no. Harry is sleeping. But I believe that after he wakes, a delicious lunch with hot chocolate will brighten his spirit."

Minty beamed. "Yes, sir! Minty will start right now!"

And she sprinted out of the room without another word.

Dumbledore pulled out two sheaves of parchment from a desk drawer and selected his best cerulean ink. With his quill of ostrich plume ready, he began to write.

A quarter hour later, the Headmaster retired to his bedroom. He would need his rest if he wanted to counsel Harry.

* * *

Harry heard a funny creaking sound and opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, a nagging emotion flittering through his brain. Something big had happened recently. Something important.

His head felt cloudy, as though he had just taken a difficult three-hour exam. His eyes stung with dryness, as did his throat. The skin on his face felt pinched as though it had been stretched like pulling taffy.

Harry held up his hand and studied his fingers, bending and flexing them. He watched his tendons distend beneath his translucent skin. It looked so delicate, so fragile. Why was he so exhausted and weak?

"How are you feeling, Harry?"

Harry turned to his right and saw Dumbledore there. As he stared into the Headmaster's grave face, his memories of that morning gushed into consciousness. He closed his eyes tightly, feeling heat bathe his face.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Harry. It's all in the past. However, Voldemort's manipulations have forced me to take action in order to prevent the events of this morning from occurring again. It is the future that should concern us at present. "

Harry looked up at his Headmaster, at the fierce and resolved twinkle in his eye. Harry wished he could make his own eyes sparkle like that. Maybe they used to…a long time ago.

"What can I do to protect myself from Voldemort?"

"You can start by getting dressed and having a late lunch with me. There are robes in the wardrobe. They have been adjusted to your size. I will meet you in the dining room."

"Uh, sir, where is the dining room?"

"Ah, silly me. I had forgotten that you have been confined to your bed for most of your stay here. I will wait in the corridor until you are dressed and then I shall give you the grand tour!"

Dumbledore was a magnificent tour guide. He could recall the minutest details about every piece of architecture at Sugarplum Poplar, its installation, its original purpose, and its current use. Furthermore, it was apparent that many parts of the building had sentimental value to the Headmaster. As Harry plodded behind him, Dumbledore was opening and closing doors, declaring "Aha! I remember this room!" Harry had the impression that Dumbledore had only been using a small fraction of the house over the past several years. His enthusiasm was so intense that it was nearly sickening to Harry. All he wanted to do was go back to bed, and Dumbledore was dancing around the labyrinthine passageways, sharing anecdotes.

Sugarplum Poplar contained many old rooms of interest to Harry. There was a sparring room, specifically designed for fencing and dueling. Dumbledore hinted that this room may be used by Harry in the future. There was also a large, magnificent library with old, leatherbound books and yellowed, crisp scrolls of parchment scrawled with ink calligraphy. A large swimming pool spanned one of the rooms. The Headmaster pointed out that he enjoyed swimming laps there when he had time in the mornings. Harry tried to picture Dumbledore in long scarlet and gold swimming trucks, performing the butterfly across the water, his beard flung over his shoulder and trailing along behind him. He smiled at that thought.

Numerous studies and parlors, guest rooms and bathrooms were passed over. The last room that Harry was shown was a museum of some sorts, containing replicas of exotic species, artifacts from famous wizards and witches, as well as rare potions ingredients.

"My uncle was quite the potions master," Dumbledore said. "He spent the autumn of his life living here with my father, inventing new serums and draughts. He traveled across the world to collect all of those ingredients. It took him half a century."

Harry nodded slowly, his eyes as large as snitches. "I bet Snape would love to get his hands on some of these."

"Professor Snape, Harry," said Dumbledore softly. "And yes, he probably would not mind having some of these specimens. However, Severus has a large degree of pride within his cool and poised exterior. He would never ask for help regarding his area of expertise. Instead, he prefers to collect his own ingredients. His stock at Hogwarts is quite impressive as it is. He has proven to be quite the potions connoisseur."

Harry didn't say anything in reply to this. He was tired of talking about Snape. A heated ripple of anger surged through him. He would never forget how Snape had goaded Sirius, how he was partly responsible for his death.

At last, the tour came to its conclusion at a large dining room with marble flooring and a delicate chandelier suspended above the table, like an overlarge snowflake. The tall paneled windows revealed an overcast sky and green grass glistening from the morning drizzle.

Winky had prepared a delicious lunch of ham sandwiches, salad greens, fruit, and hot chocolate. Harry dug into it heartily, feeling his appetite return. He felt as though he hadn't eaten in days, which was far closer to the truth than he would have liked to think about.

"Harry," Dumbledore said in a very serious tone as they sat in the parlor, full and content, sometime later. "I wish for you to study Occlumency again."

Harry felt himself visibly crumble. He didn't think he could bear to see Snape again after Sirius' death. He couldn't stand to hear Snape's snide comments about his Godfather, couldn't stand allowing him to see all of Harry's pain in his memories of Sirius.

To distract himself from thinking about Sirius, Harry dug his toes into the deep, fluffy rug in front of him. He had decided that this was his favorite room of the manor, just because it was so warm and comforting and reminded him a lot of the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Harry, did you hear me?"

"Yeah," he said resignedly, without looking up from the floor. "So when's Snape coming?"

"Severus? Good gracious, Harry, I think you misunderstand me. It is not Professor Snape who will be tutoring you. It will be I."

Harry looked up at him in astonishment. He recalled Dumbledore saying in his office at Hogwarts that it was a mistake for him not to teach Harry himself. He never dreamed that Dumbledore would actually still want to teach Harry.

"When will we start?" asked Harry.

"Right now, actually." Dumbledore raised his wand.

"No! Wait!" Harry cried, shielding himself and diving to the floor, but the spell never came. Dumbledore was beside him instantly, his hand on Harry's shoulder.

"My apologies, Harry. I wanted to catch you off guard, as Voldemort has done, but I didn't intend to alarm you so."

"It's alright, sir. I just didn't want to do Occlumency in here. I want to go someplace else, someplace that isn't warm…and…and cheery. Someplace…"

"—that won't be spoiled by reliving painful memories? I understand, Harry."

He led Harry through the winding passageways of Sugarplum Poplar to a rather bare, yet soft room that had been passed by during the tour. This room only contained a simple wooden chair and a large window that bathed everything in a gentle light.

"This was my mother's art studio, Harry. This was her favorite room to paint in, because it held no distractions. I believe that this will do for our lessons."

He conjured an identically simple wooden chair to face the other and instructed Harry to sit. The old wizard sat in the opposite chair and withdrew his elegant wand, a resolved expression on his face.

"Are you ready, Harry?"

Harry barely nodded his head before Dumbledore had raised his wand and said, "_Legilimens."_

A whirlwind of images and warbled sound invaded Harry's senses. _He could see himself drinking Butterbeer with Lupin in his office…Dudley and Piers Polkiss laughing at him in Uncle Vernon's car…a Bludger collided with his arm high up in the air…a Dementor loomed over him, its scabbed and rotten hand reaching for its dark hood…Cedric lying dead in the graveyard, his face frozen and empty…Sirius falling backward…_

The images abruptly stopped and Harry quickly realized that he had fallen out of his chair. Dumbledore was kneeling beside him.

"I am so sorry, dear boy. I know that this is difficult for you, but I needed to get a baseline understanding of your Occlumency abilities right now."

"I can't block you out," Harry croaked.

"You cannot say that after only one try. Come now, let's do it again. This time I want you to focus on pushing back against my intrusion. Use your instincts and your strength to stop me. Do not dwell on your memories."

Dumbledore helped Harry back up into the chair before once again casting, "_Legilimens."_

Harry once again felt the pressure inside his head for a moment until he was engulfed by more images of his past. _Sirius getting hit by Bellatrix's spell…Harry asking Cedric to take the cup with him…Hermione getting cursed by a Death Eater…Ron being deluged with slimy brains…Voldemort standing over Harry in a graveyard, leering at him…_

Harry found himself once again on the floor. This time, Dumbledore had transfigured a cool cloth and was placing it firmly over his forehead.

"I can't…I can't…" Harry whispered, his voice full of emotion.

"It's all right, Harry," murmured Dumbledore. "I think that we are done with Occlumency for today. There are too many painful memories saturating your consciousness, and it is inhibiting you from developing even the most basic of defenses."

"So I can never learn?" Harry asked, sitting up and tossing the cloth to the floor.

"Of course you will learn, Harry," Dumbledore assured him, placing his hand upon Harry's shoulder. "But first we must shift aside some of these memories. There is a relatively simple procedure that I am capable of carrying out, if you will let me. I am sure you have heard of it before."

"What is it?"

"Hypnosis, Harry."

Harry goggled at his Headmaster.

"But that's a Muggle shrink procedure!"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes it is. But that does not mean that it can't ever be useful. There are a plethora of Muggle techniques, procedures, and theories that are quite astute and beneficial, though many wizards are skeptical of them, blinded by their ignorance and sense of superiority. Though psychology is not the most precise branches of science, it still has contributed a great deal to the understanding of the human mind, which is perhaps one of the most complex enigmas ever known to mankind."

He conjured a comfortable leather divan in place of Harry's unoccupied chair and indicated that he should sit.

"Do I have your permission, Harry, to utilize this technique to help you cope with your memories?"

"Alright," Harry said simply, though he couldn't rid himself of the skeptical expression that seemed to be glued upon his face.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry's doubt, his eyes twinkling fondly.

"This may or may not work," he began. "Some people are more prone to hypnosis than others. Just about anyone can be hypnotized, though in varying degrees and difficulties. I have a feeling, however, that hypnosis may be quite successful for you. You do, after all, use similar faculties when you are out on the Quidditch pitch."

"How so?"

"You are a very gifted Seeker, Harry. When you are looking for the Snitch, it is apparent that you are able to tune out any outside sources or visual stimuli that are distracting to you. You are capable of only focusing on a singular object, while ignoring and avoiding others. This ability does not come easy to everyone, but since you have had experience with it before, I believe that you will be able to tune out the external world as well as your external thoughts in hypnosis.

"Please lie down, Harry."

Harry leaned back on the conjured divan, rather apprehensively.

"Hypnosis is different from the Imperius Curse in several ways. Firstly, it cannot be forced on a person. If you do not want to be hypnotized, you will not successfully fall into an ulterior state of mind. Secondly, you will stay true to your own character and judgment. You will still possess your conscience, and therefore cannot be forced to say or do something that is against your morals. Thirdly, you can pull yourself out of hypnosis far more effortlessly than when under the Imperius Curse. Since you already have the ability to escape the Imperius Curse, it should require very little effort to retreat from a state of hypnosis, should you wish it. And fourthly, your hypnotist intends you no harm, unlike most castors of the Imperius Curse. Do you have any questions at this time, Harry?"

"You're not going to make me cluck around like a chicken, are you?"

The older mage laughed heartily at this.

"Of course not, dear boy. Amusing, though it would be to see you under such a delusion, I would rather just stick to business. The objective of this procedure is not to humiliate you or provide a comedic effect. The goal here is to help you release excess tension from your mind, by teaching you to control some of your memories so they cannot inhibit your Occlumency progress any longer. I believe that these surplus memories and emotions are thwarting your ability to clear your mind."

"So you're going to erase some of my memories?"

"No, that would be counter-productive. Memories are good, Harry. Even the painful ones. Memories are the deepest and most unique of all possessions. Even the poorest, most deprived man in the world would not be so unfortunate because he still has his memories to hold onto. No two memories are alike. Even if both of us had a memory of the same event, they would be different because our memories are attuned to our own points of view, from our own perspectives and perceptions. When examined, our memories can give us clues not only of occurrences throughout our lives, but of new insights into ourselves as well. We can learn how we perceive things, what our values and biases are. I would not deprive you of your memories. I am merely going to guide you, to teach you how to shift them aside during hypnosis. You will be able to recall your memories, though a little more faintly. This should allow you to sustain a clear head for Occlumency."

Harry nodded, his eyes shining. He lay back and tried to relax his body as much as possible, just as Dumbledore had instructed. The Headmaster sat very near him, his blue eyes radiating serenity and reassurance.

"Are you ready?

"Yeah, go ahead."

Dumbledore reached into one of his pockets and pulled out some glittering metal shavings, like silver curlicues cupped in his hand. He compressed his hands together and a warm, white light glowed from between his fingers. He opened his hand and instructed Harry to focus his attention on the pulsating ball of light that was resting on his palm.

Harry did as he was told and couldn't help but marvel at the beauty found within the light. It seemed so bright and extraordinary, a solitary beacon providing illumination and warmth, like a star to a solar system. Harry sighed and felt himself sinking into the divan, lulled by Dumbledore's gentle voice and the blinking white light.

"Concentrate on your feet, Harry. Feel them becoming warm…and heavy…and relaxed."

Dumbledore's soft, unhurried tone emphasized each word with such care. His timbre voice soaked into Harry's brain and he felt his feet tingle with warmth as though Dumbledore's words persuaded his very nerves to respond.

"Now feel the warmth spread to your legs. Feel the muscles become soft and loose…"

Harry felt his legs fall deeper into the sponge-like cushion beneath him. His eyes were focused on Dumbledore, on the light cupped in his hands as he sat near him, his sapphire blue eyes radiating comfort and peace. He felt the rest of his body grow warm and heavy as they sank into the cushions from Dumbledore's instructions. His hands came next…then his arms…his torso…neck…head. His eyes fluttered, until Dumbledore's voice told him that his eyelids were heavy and needed to close too. He watched as the image of Dumbledore and the soothing light was swallowed up by a thick, warm blanket of darkness, and he realized that he wasn't nervous or frightened at all…

* * *

Dumbledore carefully pulled back one of Harry's eyelids. His eye was fixed and slightly glazed over. He then reached over to take the boy's wrist in his hand and felt his pulse. Sixty beats per minute, at rest.

He then settled back in his wooden chair, satisfied, and began to speak in the same soothing voice that he had used to relax the boy.

"Harry, can you hear me?"

"Yes," the boy whispered, his eyes still closed, his breathing slow and even.

"Harry, I want you to think about some of your memories. Think about the most painful memories that are currently residing in your mind."

The young wizard's face screwed up suddenly and he made a slight whimpering sound.

"It's all right. You are in a safe place. You need to be calm and relaxed right now."

Dumbledore waited until Harry's breathing had slowed down again before he continued.

"I want you to pick out one of your memories, one that has been troubling you. I want you to name it, describe it a bit, using only as much detail as you are comfortable with."

Harry knitted his eyebrows and then said, "I am in a hedge maze. There is a Cup and Cedric is with me. I had just saved him from Aragog, and he—he is telling me that I should take the Cup…My ankle hurts…I know that I can't win by speed…I know that he really won fair and square. I tell him to take the Cup with me…I tell him we'll tie…He agrees, not knowing that this will be the last time he'll see Hogwarts, not knowing what was waiting on the other side…I shouldn't have done that…I shouldn't have…It was me they wanted, not him…"

"This was not your fault, Harry. You did not know that the Cup was a Portkey either. No one did."

Harry shook his head furiously. Dumbledore sighed at his stubbornness.

"Alright, Harry, I am going to ask you to grasp this memory as though you can wrap your fingers around it. Grab onto all of the images, the sounds, the emotions tied to the scene and I want you to cast it away to the back of your mind. Push it back, Harry, and hold it there. You still know it's there, but it's fainter, quieter. Very good. Now let's find another."

The next memory was of Sirius falling through the Veil. Harry staggered through its description, a few tears leaking out of his eyes. Dumbledore told him that he was there, that he was not alone, and thankfully, Harry was able to successfully push the memory away. It took a while for Harry to calm after that, but then he picked another, more recent memory.

"I am in the atrium…Dumbledore has just finished dueling Voldemort…I try to run out to him, but something grabs me and there's pain…so much pain…I'm falling and there's burning…I know I'm on fire and I must be dying…this is worse than _Crucio_…I feel a snake squeezing my body, suffocating me…It talks to Dumbledore and uses me…It tries to convince Dumbledore to kill me…I want Dumbledore to kill me too…end it, Dumbledore…kill me…If you really care about me, you'd end my life…and then I'd see Sirius…"

Harry paused for a time, breathing heavily. Dumbledore's face was in his hands.

"Then the snake lets me go…and I am not dead, though I wished that I was."

Dumbledore raised his head and he whispers, "And do you still wish you were dead, Harry?"

"No," the thin young man replies. "I haven't fulfilled the prophecy yet. I need to save others before I can find my own peace."

The old wizard couldn't help himself, but reached out and ran his fingers soothingly through Harry's hair, cupping his face in his soft hands, and telling him, "You have so many things to live for, Harry, and you will realize this soon enough."

He straightened back in his chair and said, "Now I want you to clasp this memory and push it to the back of your mind. Cast it away."

A dozen other memories followed, in no particular order: Harry's confrontation with Voldemort at the end of his first year…the Pensieve scene that he had witnessed in Professor Snape's office…Voldemort tormenting him in the graveyard…his friends getting hurt in the Department of Mysteries…his detentions with Dolores Umbridge…the Basilisk and Tom Riddle…a Dementor attack…Cedric's death…Ron being angry at him…Marjorie Dursley slandering the Potters…some students accusing him of being the Heir of Slytherin… Harry's discovery of a small hand mirror…

And slowly, gradually, Harry successfully banished them all into the back of his mind, under Dumbledore's encouragement.

The Headmaster then patted Harry's hand and said, "Well done, Harry. Now I want you to feel yourself slowly awaken and you will feel relaxed and content..."

He watched as the corners of Harry's mouth flickered into the start of a smile.

* * *

Harry awoke, not realizing that he had been out for two and a half hours, feeling more refreshed than he could ever recall. Dumbledore sat very near him, a satisfied smile upon his face.

"All done, sir?"

"All done, Harry."

"Did everything…er…go all right?"

"I believe it did, Harry. Some parts of the procedure were probably more painful for me than for you." He paused here to take Harry's hand.

"You have some horrors within your mind that are troubling for anyone to witness. I am sorry, my dear boy."

The Headmaster suddenly looked much older and more tired. His eyes glistened oddly.

"Why can't I remember the procedure, sir?" Harry asked, trying to change the subject.

"Because you were in a state of deep hypnosis. Your conscious mind was not ruling over your thoughts and actions at all. It was your subconscious mind, which is a far deeper portion, one that is open to suggestion, though it still holds true to your personality. Now that your conscious mind is once again in control, the memory of the procedure with the subconscious remains buried, along with many of the emotions that were experienced at the time. I must ask you, Harry, how you are feeling?"

"I think I feel a little better, sir. It's like some of my memories are muffled inside of my head."

"That is an illusion, Harry. They only appear to be diminished because they are far away. They are locked inside your mind for the time being, though they are just as sharp, just as intense as they have always been."

" 'For the time being…'" Harry repeated.

"Yes, Harry, I'm afraid that memories cannot be forever banished, not even by Memory Charms. An extremely forceful intrusion into your mind can jar these memories and cause them to be as near to you, as vivid, as fresh as they'd always been. Other particular stimuli may also pull these memories to the forefront of your consciousness. My purpose in separating them, in stashing them away was only to allow you the chance to build up your defenses for Occlumency, so you can get a base down. Until now, these memories were prohibiting you from developing even the basic framework of a defense. And that cannot do."

"So this is only temporary?" Harry felt the happiness fade away slightly, like a cloud snatching away the sun's warm rays.

"A temporary success, yes Harry, but a success nonetheless." Dumbledore's voice was resolute. "Small steps, Harry. We have made plenty of progress today."

Harry suddenly felt very sleepy, but needed to ask Dumbledore one last thing.

"I didn't do anything…er…embarrassing, did I?"

Dumbledore looked very thoughtful for a moment.

"Am I correct in saying that you do not believe yourself a member of the poultry family?"

Harry felt a grin spread across his face. "No sir."

Dumbleore's mustache trembled slightly, and Harry could tell that the Headmaster was trying not to chuckle. His eyes glowed in merriment at the genuine smile upon Harry's face.

"Then I believe that this session today can be considered as a double success," he said.

They both laughed then, and the setting sun hung framed in the window outside, bathing the room in a gentle, orange glow.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! Please review, if you can. Any comments, questions, or criticisms are welcome as long as they are constructive. All support is much needed!

**A comment I want to make about Dumbledore...**

**Although many view Dumbledore in a far different light after Deathly Hallows, I do not, because to me, that book only proved that he is human and that after a troublesome period in his youth, he made the right kind of choices and became the great man and wizard that we know and love. I see the Dumbledore of my story to be in canon with JK Rowling's Dumbledore, except he is being more open to Harry about his affections instead of holding it all inside like the Dumbledore in canon. Hermione was right about Dumbledore in Deathly Hallows: Dumbledore always loved Harry, even though he did not show it in very obvious ways, and Harry knew this by the end of the book. I'm sure that if Dumbledore had lived to see more peaceful times, he would have opened up more to Harry and would have been an even bigger part of his life. (sniff)**

**A/N:** There are several people whom I want to thank...

**AngelMoon Girl:** I cannot thank you enough for your wonderful reviews. You are very helpful to me, and it is encouraging for me to know that there is someone who is so looking forward to my story. I must admit that I get just as excited over getting your reviews as you claim to get over my updates. Thank you so much for being an outstanding reader and reviewer! And I also must add that I am a big fan of your own story--you write quite well!

**WannabeSlytherin:** Thank you for your kind and humorous reviews. They make me laugh! (in a good way). I also must add that Minty is not going to "pull a Myrtle" from the Goblet of Fire movie on Harry. That was disgusting! No, Minty is a very decent house-elf and has no...er..._feelings _for Harry in that kind of way. Thanks again, and good luck with your own story!

**Sulpicia:** Your review was very nice and encouraging. I am very glad that my story was easy for you to read. I am a huge stickler for grammar and spelling (though I do make mistakes just like the next person), and I understand how difficult it is to read stories that are filled with errors. I also must congratulate you on your cleverness and insight regarding the true nature of Harry's dreams. You definitely know how to read the clues that I left and you figured out quite easily that it was Voldemort who was sending them. Great job!

**SylvaDragon: **I am very touched by your review. Thank you so much for saying such nice things! I also have to say that I understand some of your frustration with Dumbledore in Deathly Hallows. A lot of Dumbledore fans were disappointed, and I was too, at first, but now I realize that I only love Dumbledore even more after DH. His character coincides with JK's style of him in previous books. Dumbledore has always been so intelligent that he is a bit reclusive and emotionally/affectionately detached from many people. I think that of all the people in JK's world, Dumbledore has opened up to Harry the most and he has loved him like a son. Dumbledore hints at his affection for Harry throughout the book series, though it is never presented in a very obvious way. Dumbledore's seeming manipulations were done in order to save as many people as possible (including Harry), and Dumbledore seems to be a better man for it. I think that Dumbledore and Harry would have been able to bond more in the books if Dumbledore wasn't so short on time and if they didn't have to focus so much on their missions. Well, I can get a bit long-winded on Dumbledore (I'm sorry), so I'll move on to answering your question (and it is definitely not a stupid one) about the time frame of my story. My story starts off in the summer after Harry's fifth year (and it is in canon up until that point), but the story is also going to continue on through Harry's sixth year and will replace "Half Blood Prince" while still containing some elements of JK's plot:) Thanks again for your wonderful review!

I also want to thank everyone else who has reviewed, including **ILoveHarryJamesPotter, aliciajuncal, blackruby873, Spiorad, Hoshi Tamamushiirono, shannyauburn, Rhetorical-Ducky, Rosaleen, Emma-girl, DeathlyPhoenix, Ace7, TwilightsCalling, Apocalypticat, BlackHalliwell, Englishgirl, ILoveFlitwick, Timaios, Black Rogue, sillyseal, Bananamanda, **and **President Laguna. **Without all of your kind words and encouraging reviews, I don't think I could have continued with this fic, so thank you very very much!!


	7. Occlumency, Birthdays, and Troubled Moon

**Disclaimer:** All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of J.K. Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

**A/N:** Woohoo, longest chapter yet! I am very sorry about the delay on this one. I really did intend to have this up at least a month ago, but seemed to get a little caught up with school and work. Anyways, I really hope you like this installment. Oh! And I think that I should warn you that there is a scene later in this chapter that describes an act of graphic violence. Nothing too serious, but I just thought that I should give you the "head's up" about it. Happy reading!

* * *

**Harry Potter and the Time of Transition**

Chapter 7

_Occlumency, Birthdays, and Troubled Moons_

The next day, Harry awoke feeling light and refreshed for the first time in several months. He recalled vaguely his failed attempt at Occlumency and it didn't bother him. He could still feel that deep warmth in his bones, the vestiges of peace and serenity that Dumbledore had granted to him during hypnosis. Harry didn't care if his peace was only temporary. This morning, this day, these few hours of calm were precious to him.

He dressed himself in plain green robes that were in the cedar wardrobe and headed downstairs to the dining hall. Dumbledore sat at one end, the Daily Prophet unfurled before him, a sober expression upon his face. At Harry's approach, however, his features brightened and he rolled the paper up, placing it out of sight.

"Good morning, Harry. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, sir, thank you."

Dumbledore clasped his fingers together in his lap and fixed Harry with a very earnest expression. "I want you to understand, Harry, if something is troubling you, or if you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to come to me. I am here to help you. Your memories, as I had told you last night, are not permanently shut away from your consciousness. They will eventually return, but hopefully, not until after we can build up some shields. Your mind's protection is the priority in this situation. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent! Now after such a productive night of solid sleep, you must be famished. I suggest you try Minty's black pudding. It is a most delicious treat." He indicated a platter of dark, spicy sausages. The aroma was causing Harry's mouth to water.

A tinkling sound behind Harry pronounced Minty's arrival to the room. She was balancing a hefty tray laden with a rattling teapot, china cups, and bowls of fruit, which she set in front of Harry, next to the breakfast meat.

"Harry Potter should eats up his food. Minty thinks Harry Potter needs fattening up." And to illustrate her statement, she poked Harry hard in his skinny side.

"I'm working on it," Harry grumbled, as he sank a forkful of sausages into his mouth.

Dumbledore waited patiently for Harry to finish eating. When Harry finally dropped his fork onto his plate with a gentle clatter, Dumbledore put down his newspaper, saying, "Well, Harry, are you ready to try your hand at Occlumency again?"

"All right, sir," Harry agreed, wondering what Dumbledore would have said if he refused. He followed the Headmaster to the plain, studio-like room that they had used the day before and sat down in one of the chairs.

"I think, Harry," began Dumbledore, "that it may be prudent to try some mental exercises first. I want you to close your eyes."

Harry did so, but rather hesitantly.

"Ah, you look worried Harry. Do not stress yourself. I will not attack your mind just yet, and when I do, I will give you fair warning."

Harry sensed Dumbledore rise from his chair and walk a couple of steps toward him, then heard him circle around him. "I want you to imagine a place that brings you great peace and calmness. It can be a place that you have visited before, or a place that is only part of your imagination, but in either case, it must cause you to relax. Can you find such a place?"

He thought really hard, thinking back to the various rooms and halls of Hogwarts, then to Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. He thought at first of the Gryffindor Common Room, with its roaring fire, arm chairs, and work tables. Then his vision shifted and a new image swirled into focus. He could see a finely furnished room with plush furniture, a thick, furry rug, a cheery fireplace, and a dozen intricate tapestries and paintings adorning the wall.

"Yes, sir, I have it."

"Very good. Now I want you to concentrate very intently on the _feelings _that this place inspires. Feel the calmness soak into your mind. Then I want you to imagine the place fading away--quietly, gently, and gradually. It is slipping from your consciousness, but the feeling that it inspires remains just as intense as before."

Harry listened to Dumbledore's voice as it circled around him, feeling his chest swell with relaxation and calm. He felt as though he was floating on a bed of feathers, warmth bathing his face and his body…

"Now all that should remain is the blank darkness of your mind, layered with peace and serenity. You may open your eyes."

The teen looked up to meet Dumbledore's twinkling gaze.

"Did it work, Harry?"

"Yeah, I felt really good…and there were no images or memories at the end. Just nothing."

"That is the purpose of the exercise, Harry. It is an effective way for clearing one's mind, and it doesn't involve the absence of emotions, either. Some emotions are more stable than others. Peace is more sturdy and powerful than panic or anxiety. This is a helpful exercise to use in the future. It is very efficient for most wizards, and it seems that you, my boy, are no exception."

Harry smiled, his heart glowing with satisfaction. _He had finally done something right_.

Dumbledore took the chair sitting opposite of Harry. They were so close that their knees were almost touching. Harry thought that had they been at Hogwarts, there would probably be a desk between them. For some reason, Harry felt much calmer knowing that Dumbledore was near him, at the same level as him. He wasn't going to loom over him like Snape had. This wasn't going to be a hostile confrontation, but merely a gentle prying.

The Headmaster leaned forward. "You now have an effective way to clear your mind, Harry. Try to remain emotionless and calm, and that in itself will delay my progress through your memories. Are you ready?"

Harry nodded his head, gripping his wand as Dumbledore raised his own wand. "One…two…three…_Legilimens._"

Harry met Dumbledore's blue eyes and felt a gentle tickling beyond Harry's temple. His mind felt so calm and relaxed and emotionless that he didn't care about the invasive presence. He had no feelings, no memories to satisfy the questing tickle.

Then the tickle abruptly grew stronger and plunged into his consciousness, swift and forceful. A barrage of snapshots flashed at him.

_He was following Hagrid through a mass of people at Diagon Alley, his face registering shock and awe…_

_He was hissing at a snake that was poised and ready to strike Justin Finch-Fletchley, who was staring not at the snake, but at Harry with intense fear…_

_A seven year-old Harry, with tears streaming down his face, was being forced into a cupboard by a purple-faced Vernon Dursley…_

Suddenly, Harry felt himself recoil and fall backward. The images instantly dissolved and Dumbledore was crouched in front of him, his eyes sad and solicitous as he regarded Harry.

"I tried," Harry said weakly, feeling a deep wave of shame and frustration sweep through his body like electricity.

To his surprise and albeit slight irritation, he saw Dumbledore smile broadly. "And it was a very good try, Harry. You did well."

Harry continued to stare at him, bewildered.

"Here, let me help you up." Dumbledore extended his hand and Harry took it, feeling Dumbledore hoist him to his feet and gently push him back into his chair. Harry couldn't help but admire the headmaster's strength. He seemed to always exude the air of a sprightly man in his prime, instead of the old wizard that he really was.

Dumbledore sat across from Harry, still smiling broadly. He reached a long hand into his robes and pulled out a small, blue sack with a silver drawstring. Dumbledore loosened the string and withdrew a round, yellow sweet. Harry marveled at the fact that Dumbledore had bags of candy stuffed in his robes.

"Would you like a sherbet lemon?"

"No."

"Are you sure, Harry? They really are quite tasty, and rather soothing too!"

"I don't think I deserve one until I get this right," Harry said firmly.

"Ah, I see. You are dissatisfied with your progress." Dumbledore leaned forward, clasping his long fingers together, pinning Harry with his intense blue gaze. "I beg to differ with you, my boy. You kept me out of your memories for several moments. The only way that I could succeed in my intrusion was to apply more force. In short, you did very well. A calm and empty mind alone can inhibit a gentle disturbance. You succeeded in that step of Occlumency. Now we must work on a stronger defense, _blocking_, which is elected for more vigorous intrusions."

Dumbledore paused here to scrutinize Harry. "Do you feel well enough to continue? I know that the process is exhausting and uncomfortable. We can stop here for the day, if you like."

Harry was tempted to call it quits for the day. He did feel rather ill, though not perhaps as badly as he had felt in his lessons with Snape. With Snape, everything was far colder. The dungeon environment matched Snape's personality and attack style almost perfectly. Sharply chilled, dark, and slimy…

With Dumbledore, though, the attacks were different. They were soft, but steady. Snape's attack style felt like a battering ram crushing his skull, while Dumbledore's style was like a trickling of water that seeped into all the nooks and crannies of his mind. Though both kinds of attacks left Harry feeling sick and achy, Dumbledore's method seemed far more preferable because Harry enjoyed his company far more. Dumbledore had a far warmer persona. Harry felt comfortable with Dumbledore. He was soothing, not oppressive. As a teacher, he was far more efficient than Snape as well. He used more gentle guidance and encouragement, not sarcasm and hostility. He genuinely cared about Harry and he didn't enjoy seeing him suffer. Snape, on the other hand…

Harry tried to shake his own thoughts from his head, and instead focused on Dumbledore's instructions.

"The next powerful defense in Occlumency, besides the clearing of the mind, is a blocking maneuver. This is merely an impediment, designed according to the Occlumens' personal preference, as a structure to inhibit penetration. Most people prefer to construct walls, though I know of a couple who create traps and swamps in their minds to ensnare unwanted intrusions. Might I ask you to close your eyes again, Harry?"

Harry did so, trying to will the empty calm to cloak his mind.

"I want you to build yourself a wall. It can be made of any material that you wish, with only one condition: it must be very strong. Once you have your wall constructed, let me know. You may take as much time as you require."

Harry nodded his assent, and focused hard on laying brick after brick of dense concrete. He imagined a misty void on one side of his wall foundation, while the other side contained bright colors and noise. He wanted to make his wall nice and high, so that those colors and sounds were shut away, protected.

Once his wall seemed high and solid enough, he nodded to Dumbledore.

"Alright, Harry. One…Two…Three…_Legilimens!_"

There was a push inside his skull followed by pressure. Harry pictured his mental wall, he imagined its strength and fortitude. He felt a blur of white light strike it and the bricks trembled, the concrete slabs shimmering as though struck by a summer mirage. Then a small crack split down the center, dust particles floating in the air, and the white light invaded the wall and entered the color and sound beyond…

_An ashen-faced Harry waited within the champions' tent, nervously listening to the sound of a dragon's roar…_

_A frantic Harry was jamming the Sorting Hat upon his head, while Tom Riddle's high, mocking laugh rang throughout the Chamber…_

The spell abruptly lifted and Harry quickly straightened up in his chair. At least he hadn't fallen to the floor this time; instead he had merely slumped down a little bit.

"A good try, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Yet perhaps you might want to consider forming your wall with a more solid and impenetrable substance."

"Could you—could you see my wall, sir?" asked Harry.

"No. Only you can see your wall. I, however, could feel it and though it was firm at first, it was feeble in too many places and therefore not too difficult to breach."

"I used concrete bricks," Harry explained.

"Ah, well, the oversight was probably the fact that you did not fill the spaces between the bricks, Harry. If I might make a suggestion, perhaps you could fill it with mortar or a stronger substance, if you wish."

"Okay…I think I can do that sir."

Harry screwed up his eyes and tried to concentrate as hard as he could. He imagined his concrete wall, only this time he poured hot liquid iron over it, so that it seeped into the cracks and covered the entire surface. It cooled into a hard, shiny mass that glimmered dully in the foggy recesses of his mind.

"I'm ready."

"All right, Harry. One…Two…Three.._Legilimens!_"

Harry felt the cranial pressure and questing presence once more, but this time, he focused on his sheer metal wall, smooth and impenetrable, just like the barrier that Dumbledore had created between him and the Veil the previous morning. The intruding presence swept the span of the wall and pushed, but did not breach. Harry could feel himself perspiring with the effort of maintaining his firm structure. He could feel his hands trembling as they rested upon his knees. His skull was throbbing as the presence pushed. Harry's emerald eyes were pinned to Dumbledore's blue, and he could not look away. He felt his toes curl within his shoes from the exertion, and right when he felt as though his wall was going to disintegrate into a cloud of dust and shrapnel, Dumbledore released him.

Harry folded his torso over his lap and tried to catch his breath. He felt a warm hand rest upon his slightly-shivering shoulder.

"Excellent, Harry!" Dumbledore said. "Well done! You kept me out for several minutes! I think that we will end the lesson for now. You have made great progress, and I do not wish to push you anymore this day."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said. "Will we continue tomorrow then?"

"Hmm, I think not, Harry. Tomorrow is your birthday after all, and I am sure you want to be at your fullest physical and mental capacities for when your friends arrive for your party."

Harry did a slight double-take. "Party, sir?"

"I haven't told you yet? Why, silly me! Well, I am afraid it is too late for you to change your mind as I have already sent out the invitations. I couldn't help but feel that you were not being completely true to yourself when you had told me that your greatest desire for your birthday was to go to the Ministry. As fascinating as a conversation about the Auror program could have been, I think we both know that your true motive was manipulated by Lord Voldemort. Since you have not had a very pleasant summer so far, I decided to take the initiative to try to give you a delightful birthday. I have invited some of your friends and Order members to a celebration tomorrow afternoon, and they have already enthusiastically consented to come."

"You didn't have to--"

"I know I didn't have to do anything, Harry; however, it is something that I _wanted_ to do. I would like you to try to be _happy_, dear boy."

Harry suddenly felt his throat go dry, his eyes beginning to prickle and moisten as though he were chopping a very potent onion. "Th-thank you, sir," he said.

"You are very welcome, Harry," Dumbledore said in a very gentle and understanding voice, before switching into a businesslike tone. "Now, I know that you have undoubtedly exerted yourself today and are probably not feeling quite so well. I suggest that you take a nice, hot bath. It may soothe you and help you to relax a bit. The rest of the day is yours to do as you will. You may help yourself to the library or any other room in the house in which the door is open. The only demand that I have, is that you join me for lunch at noon and dinner at six o'clock. I would like to get you on a consistent eating schedule. I will be in my study if you need me at all. Please do not hesitate to come and get me for any concerns that may come to mind. Do you have any questions at this time?"

"No, sir," Harry said, standing up. "I'll see you at lunch."

* * *

The following morning, Harry couldn't help but feel a tingle of nervous excitement. Today was his birthday party. He still wasn't certain how much he wanted to interact with people, not when his internal state seemed so confused and empty since his fiasco at the Veil, but at the same time, it was comforting to know that there were many people who cared about him being a year older, and not just for him being the Boy Who Lived.

When he entered the dining room for breakfast, Dumbledore was awaiting him. He was dressed in opulent silver a shade darker than his beard, a huge, broad smile was stretched across his face. He opened his arms wide at the sight of Harry, his cerulean eyes sparkling like the ocean's waves beneath a hot noon sun.

"Harry!" his voice jubilated. "Happy Birthday, dear boy!"

"Er…thanks," Harry said, feeling both happy and embarrassed.

"How does it feel to be sixteen years old?" asked Dumbledore, while pulling out a chair and gesturing for Harry to sit.

Harry shrugged as he sank down at the table. "I dunno…the same as being fifteen, I guess."

Dumbledore chuckled as he took the seat across from Harry. "Believe me, Harry, I will try to make this day an enjoyable one for you so that "fifteen" will seem quite platitudinous in comparison!"

Using the headmaster's words as a cue, Minty arrived on the spot, little birthday candle earrings swaying from her ears. The words _Happy Birthday Harry _were crudely embroidered upon her green shirt. Her little hands wove through the air in a backward beckoning motion and Harry could see a parade of dishes floating behind her.

Within seconds, platters of scrambled eggs, crumpets, crepes, sausages, kippers, toast, buns, and bacon skidded onto the table. In hot pursuit, arrived bowls of exotic fruits and creamy porridges. A wide selection of juices, coffees, and teas materialized in front of Harry as well.

Dumbledore raised his fancy goblet into the air in a very high-spirited motion, and proclaimed, "Tuck in!" His salutation seemed to be a little _too _exuberant however, as the cloudy amber liquid of his pumpkin juice splashed onto his beard.

"Oops," the esteemed wizard declared, rather matter-of-factly, and dabbed at himself with his cream-colored napkin. Harry smiled in mirth at the comical sight and helped himself to a caramelized bun, thinking that maybe today would be quite memorable after all.

Even though Harry ended up eating only half of his plate, he had probably consumed far more food than he had eaten over the last two weeks combined. After he had finished, Dumbledore then sent Harry to the parlor where he had stated that a guest would be visiting with him shortly. Harry, a puzzled expression ghosting his face, decided to stare into the glowing fire as Dumbledore took his leave.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," said a soft voice. Harry turned around quickly and absorbed the sight of the man who had entered the parlor. Remus Lupin looked far more worn down than when Harry had seen him at King's Cross a month earlier. His patched robes hung a bit loose on his thin frame. His eyes had a lackluster quality to them, frown lines shallowly imprinted on his face. Sirius' death had clearly affected him. Harry's heart clenched painfully and out of concern for his former professor, he blurted out, rather tactlessly, "You don't look very well."

"And I can say the same about you," Lupin replied, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed Harry. "You will have to eat your entire birthday cake today in order to put on a fraction of the weight that you lost."

Harry blushed, hot shame flooding him, but he saw that Lupin was smiling down at him. "Let's talk a bit, Harry. I want to hear about your summer so far."

Lupin led Harry into the parlor and they both chose armchairs that were angled toward one another. Minty quickly skipped in, balancing a rattling tray of tea supplies between her tiny hands.

"Mister Dumbledore is sending you his favorite teas, sirs!" she piped, before skipping out of the room.

Lupin looked at the departing elf for a moment, amusement glittering his face, before turning to Harry.

"How are you holding up?"

Harry shrugged. "All right."

"Are you?" Lupin raised an eyebrow rather dubiously. Then he sighed. "You know, Harry, I really miss Sirius too. I felt as though I had gained a long-lost brother when it was revealed that Sirius was innocent. You cannot imagine the pain I felt fifteen years ago, when I lost your mother, your father, Pettigrew, and Sirius. How bitter and betrayed I felt by Sirius' apparent treachery. I felt as though my world had been tipped upside down and shaken roughly. My fondest school-day memories were tainted. But you exposed me to the truth, and I finally felt as though the world was put to right. Sirius was not a traitor, and I had regained my friend. And now, with his death, I've lost him all over again. Except now, the loss is permanent."

Harry realized that his mouth was hanging slightly open. He couldn't remember a time when Lupin had been this direct with him. It almost made him feel a little uncomfortable, but at the same time, it was nice to know that he wasn't alone in his pain. Lupin understood. Well…so did Dumbledore, but Dumbledore did not know Sirius as well as he and Lupin had.

He swallowed rather thickly. He felt as though he should say something kind and comforting to his former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, but all he could manage was, "I feel bad too."

"I know," Lupin murmured, and then decided to focus his attention on the tea tray that Minty had left behind.

"Well," he said, while pouring tea into both of their cups. "How do you like living with Dumbledore?"

Harry smiled. Lupin looked genuinely curious. Harry supposed that he was the only person in a very long time who could actually say that he inhabited the same living space as the famous headmaster. True, Dumbledore spent a large chunk of the day doing work for the Ministry and the Order, and for Hogwarts as well. And he also gave Harry a lot of privacy and downtime. Yet Harry still felt a small sense of pride that he was learning a lot more about his headmaster, more than the general public at least. Harry knew Dumbledore's food preferences and his morning routine. He also began to learn a little bit about Dumbledore's family through his observations of Sugarplum Poplar. Dumbledore always seemed reluctant to volunteer much about his family besides a few happy anecdotes. And there were definitely several locked doors in the maze-like cottage, doors which Dumbledore insisted on leaving closed, out of respect for those who used to inhabit the barren rooms.

Dumbledore certainly was very enigmatic, and definitely far less whimsical than Harry had remembered him in his early years at Hogwarts. Harry supposed that war did this to people. He could definitely see Dumbledore less as a headmaster and more as a military mobilizer and strategist, especially in his work with the Order and the Ministry.

Still, Dumbledore had always made sure to check in on Harry, to make sure that he was well, and to offer company or a patient ear, though Harry hadn't really talked much to Dumbledore except in the last couple of days…

"Harry?" Lupin said gently, and Harry realized that he hadn't answered his former professor's question yet.

"I like it here with Dumbledore. He is very busy most of the time, but we've had some good talks and he's teaching me Occlumency, so it's been interesting."

Lupin nodded, taking another sip from his tea. "Ah, peppermint and cinnamon. A unique combination. Very Dumbledore-like."

Lupin seemed to be thinking about what to say next and he fiddled with the sugar pot awkwardly.

Harry decided to beat him to it. "Why are you here, Remus? I don't think it's just because it's my birthday, is it?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You're way too early. Everyone else is coming in the late afternoon. This seems like something Dumbledore planned."

Lupin sighed. "You're too clever, Harry. Yes, Dumbledore did write to me, asking that I visit and talk with you."

Harry leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms around his frame. His stomach squirmed in a sickening sort of way, as though there were electric jellyfish swirling around inside of him. He could sense where this conversation was going.

"I suppose I will just be direct with you and tell you exactly why I am here. Dumbledore is concerned about you. He said that you are very troubled and you are having difficulty coming to grips with Sirius' death."

Even though Harry anticipated something like this, it still felt like a blow to his gut to hear Lupin utter it so plainly. He felt his lips grow cold. Lupin leaned forward, a tired expression on his face.

"I know you don't like hearing this, but understand that we are all worried about you and want to help you. At every Order meeting, Molly Weasley practically grills Dumbledore for information about you. Ron and Hermione have been cornering him as well. The headmaster has been very discreet with the information that he divulges, as he does not want people to be overly alarmed with the detailed facts about how much you have been ill and withdrawn."

"But I--"

Lupin raised his hand. "Please, Harry, don't bother making excuses for yourself. I took one glance at you and I agree with Dumbledore's concerns. Now Dumbledore has said that you've improved these past couple of days, though you need to talk more about how you feel. I know how hard it is to lose someone close to you. Believe me. But you have to take better care of yourself. Eat, sleep, keep your mind and body occupied. Write to Ron and Hermione. They are very worried about you. Make sure you talk to them today, when they visit."

Harry nodded his head ever-so-slightly, his eyes were glazed over. Lupin wondered how much of the lecture Harry actually took in. _Were his eyes glazed with emotion or day-dreaming?_ His posture was extremely tense.

"You can relax now, Harry. The worst is over. Please understand that I don't like lecturing you, but you have to realize that there are healthier ways to deal with your grief than shutting yourself away from people. Besides, it's your birthday today. Enjoy yourself!"

* * *

"Don't suffocate him, Hermione," said Ron, shaking his head in exasperation, though a grin remained pasted upon his face. "It's good to see you, mate." He clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder once a teary-eyed Hermione had released him.

She was wearing Muggle clothing, a lilac-colored t-shirt and jeans. Her face looked worried, even pained as she perused Harry. Her eyes seemed ready to overflow; Harry looked away quickly.

Harry instead shifted his attention to Ron. He was wearing plain black wizard robes, a too-short hand-me-down, most likely from one of his older brothers. Apparently, his parents had decided that he was at the age to start wearing wizard clothing during the holiday, instead of Muggle garb. He noted that Ron seemed to have shot up another inch or two over the summer. Harry reckoned that he must now be a dwarf in comparison.

He was rather surprised that they had been sent up to greet him in his room. He had expected them to wait for him in the dining hall. After all, that was where all of the other guests were supposed to be gathering. After their earlier "talk", Remus had suggested that Harry wait in his room while he discussed some Order matters with Dumbledore and helped with the party decorations in the hall. Harry had whiled away the afternoon perusing his textbooks and lightly dozing. Despite the fact that he was mostly cured from his previous illness and injuries, he still felt very tired at times.

His mind returned to his friends as he heard Hermione clear her throat.

"You—you look well," Hermione said softly.

"Oh come off it, Hermione! You look absolutely terrible!" Ron exclaimed at Harry. "I mean, I heard that you were ill and all, but I thought you'd at least try to eat something now and then! Wait till mum sees you; she'll shove steak and kidney pie down your throat!"

"_Ron_!" Hermione admonished. "Honestly, you are the most tactless person I know."

Harry shifted his weight uncomfortably. He had been avoiding mirrors all summer. He supposed he did look unwell, though he didn't really know what he could do about it. He _was_ trying after all. Wasn't that good enough?

"I just haven't been that hungry lately," he said in a rather subdued tone, knowing that he was stating the obvious. What else could he say?

"Does this have to do with Sirius, Harry?" Hermione voiced very softly.

"Hermione…" It was Ron's turn to sound reproachful.

"It's about a lot of things, but nothing that I really want to talk about right now," Harry said determinedly, standing up. "Perhaps we should head back to the dining room. The others are probably waiting for us."

He chose to ignore the disappointed looks on Ron and Hermione's faces.

When he reached the dining hall below, he noticed that it was decorated with Gryffindor colors. Scarlet and gold balloons were festooned in floating bouquets, as well as free-standing spheres on the floor. Minty was wading through the air-filled globes, scarlet crepe paper trailing from the bottom of her left shoe, no doubt stuck on a wad of already-chewed bubble gum that had somehow made its way to her sneaker sole. The balloons made the room look rather crowded.

Furthermore, the furnished room was full of happily-chattering guests. Tonks and Lupin were standing in a corner, sipping Butterbeer, while Mad-Eye Moody seemed to be engrossed in a serious conversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt. Harry could not make out any of the words in their low, hushed voices. Ginny Weasley was inspecting one of the old-fashioned portraits of Dumbledore's ancestors, and seemed to be having a hard time holding back a smile at Fred and George's pompous impersonations of the portraits' occupants. Even Charlie and Bill had come along; the younger of the two was sharing words with Hagrid, who couldn't seem to contain his excitement. Harry caught a few words in their conversation such as "wingspan" and "flame length" and "feeding territory." He could only assume that they were talking about dragons.

Bill was talking with his father, who was happily examining the room, his hand relaxing around a smooth glass of brandy. Molly Weasley was peering toward the room beyond, obviously awaiting Harry's arrival. Harry surmised that she must not have expected him to come down the smaller, side-corridor into the dining hall, a narrow passageway that was half-hidden behind an exotic, humming fern.

Mrs. Weasley's sensitive hearing, of which only a capable and experienced mother could master, caused her to whip around at the sound of Harry's approaching footfalls.

"Harry! Oh, Harry dear!"

And Harry was engulfed in a warm, motherly embrace, his face pressed into Mrs. Weasley's shoulder, her perfume tickling his nostrils.

"I'm so glad to see you! Happy Birthday!" She patted his back one last time before releasing him. Harry stepped back, his face heating up and he hoped that the rest of his guests were too busy socializing to pay attention to how awkward and embarrassed he felt.

She held Harry away from her, at a shoulder-length distance, and scrutinized him. Her eyes misted gently, and Harry quickly looked away. "Oh, Harry, dear. Those wretched Muggles! They don't understand that a growing boy needs nourishment! Come here!"

And she propelled Harry over to a side table that was heaped with mountains of hors d'oeuvres and promptly loaded a plate high with cakes and sandwiches, all of which were resting on a sea of fresh vegetables.

"Mrs. Weasley, it's all right. I'm really not that hungry."

"Nonsense! We just need to build up your appetite! Here, get started on this plate while I fix another one for you."

Harry quietly shuffled away from Mrs. Weasley as she busied herself at the table. He instead wandered over to Fred, George, and Ginny, who were now joined by Ron and Hermione.

"Do you guys want some food?" Harry asked, holding out the plate to them.

"Why, thank you, Harry, good chap," said Fred in an overly-stuffy voice. The portrait behind him glared reproachfully. Ginny giggled.

"Yes, Harry, you're a good wee lad," quipped George in a mocking, wheezy voice that would be more suitable to an elderly man, and helped himself to a ham sandwich. The old man in the portrait to the twin's left made a very rude gesture with his hand.

Harry just stood there and spent the next few minutes listening to their chatter, while his friends picked at his plate. Apparently, the Weasley twins were having much success with their new joke shop and they were avidly talking about their latest mechanisms for wreaking havoc.

"And our new inventions include Swallowing Doors and Hooting Toffee and Chameleon Lotion--"

"—And Chimp Chews, where you sprout a monkey tail and can swing around for up to ten minutes!"

"Yeah, they tested that one on me," Ron muttered to Harry.

They were interrupted by Mrs. Weasley as she thrust another plate at Harry. "Oh, well done, Harry! I knew you could eat it all!" she said as she took Harry's empty dish from him. "Here's another one for you; we must build up your strength!"

Fred and George sniggered, while Hermione looked disapproving.

All of a sudden, a small blur of color and sound whizzed to Harry's right, and he stumbled backward slightly as a light weight collided with his leg. He looked down to see Dobby clutching onto him.

"Dobby is so happy to be seeing Harry Potter! Dobby is wanting to wish Harry Potter a most happy birthday! Dobby is thankful that Harry Potter is still alive these sixteen years, and that we all gets to celebrate with you! You are the Hero to House-Elves, the Victor of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Warrior of Goodness, the Challenger of Dark Arts, the Slayer of Serpents--"

Harry felt the prickly sensation of humiliation wash over him. Fred and George were sniggering again.

"—the Liberator of Dobby, the Wearer of Socks, the Friend of the Wheezy--"

Fred and George were guffawing openly now. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had joined in as well, but Dobby continued in his long, praising rant, barreling on like an irrepressible fanfare.

"—the Champion of the Triwizard Tournament, the Snatcher of the Snitch--"

Dobby's voice suddenly became muffled as a small hand clamped over his mouth.

"You is showering Harry Potter with too many epi-tets!" Minty admonished before removing her hand.

Dobby's eyes immediately began to fill and he exclaimed, "Dobby is so sorry, Harry Potter! Dobby is only trying to lift Harry Potter's spirits!"

"I know you were," Harry said hastily, hoping to prevent a sudden act of self-abuse on Dobby's part. "Thank you, I understand. Why don't you…just enjoy yourself. Here, you both can take my plate. I'm not hungry anymore."

And Dobby and Minty both bustled off holding each end of the plate between them. Harry watched amusedly as Dobby reached for a tiny lemon pastry and Minty slapped the back of his hand. ("No! You must always offer it to a lady first, before you is going to start grabbing!")

"I am so glad that Dumbledore has a free elf employed at his summer home. He should make that public knowledge so that other wizards can follow his example," said Hermione in a very satisfied tone.

But Harry wasn't listening to her. Instead, his eyes and ears were focused on the room beyond the dining hall, where Dumbledore was exchanging words with a black-cloaked wizard with shoulder-length, greasy, hair and a sharp, angular face.

"_Snape!_"Harry hissed vehemently. His blood was boiling beneath his veins. Here was the man who bullied Harry for the past five years, the man who taunted Sirius, who helped lure him to leave Number Twelve Grimmauld Place…

"Harry?" Hermione asked softly, placatingly. Harry ignored her and gazed intensely at the exchange between the two wizards. Dumbledore was speaking to Snape in a low voice, so Harry could not make out the words. The Headmaster's face was serious and purposeful as he accepted the half-dozen bottles of potions that Snape was handing to him.

Dumbledore abruptly turned to exit the room, heading up the stairs. Snape turned toward the dining hall, his cold, calculating eyes drinking in the festive excitement. His eyes finally met with Harry's glaring ones and he sneered, before turning around and heading towards the door.

"Yeah, that's right. You leave. You're not welcome here," Harry said under his breath.

"Come on, Harry. Don't let Snape spoil your day," Hermione said firmly and she pulled Harry towards the magnificent center table which was, to Harry's embarrassment, laden with presents.

"Ah, an excellent idea, Miss Granger," came Dumbledore's voice, as he entered the room with a broad smile upon his face. He turned to all of the guests and called out, "I believe it is time to watch Harry open his gifts!"

Harry imagined that he was as red as a London telephone booth at this point, but he agreed to sit down at the table and reached for the nearest parcel. It was from Charlie, and it contained a set of new dragon-hide gloves for his classes. He thanked Charlie, and then grasped the next gift. Harry relaxed more and more as he continued pulling off wrapping paper and ribbon. _This isn't so bad, _he thought. He enjoyed getting presents of course, but he just wasn't used to opening them so publicly, and with everyone's attention focused solely on him. The guests were all gathered around him and they applauded and exhaled _oohs _and _ahhs_ at some of the gifts. It helped relieve some of the tension Harry felt and he was grateful.

Hagrid had given him a warm batch of rock cakes as well as a year supply of Owl Treats for Hedwig. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had of course given Harry several small birthday cakes and a new wizard hat. Ginny had played to Harry's Quidditch interests by giving him a practice snitch that reminded him of the one his father had been playing with in Snape's pensieve. Harry was highly amused when he opened up Ron's gift to find several comic books about Muggle Adventurers who went on extraordinary missions. Hermione had raised her eyebrows when she had seen it as well. From her, Harry had received two books on advanced defensive spells.

Kingsley Shacklebolt and Mad-Eye Moody had pooled some of their money together to purchase Harry a Foe-Glass. The box it came in wasn't very large, but it was enchanted to fit the whole mirror. Harry had a difficult time pulling the very tall object from its deceptively-small package.

The Weasley Twins had given Harry one of their more expensive products. "Bouncing Portable Puddles!" they exclaimed, as Harry unwrapped a large, murky sphere. You just throw the ball down a Hogwarts corridor, per se, and deep, soggy puddles appear everywhere it bounces!"

"I am going to pretend that I did not hear you say that," said Dumbledore, his eyes gazing dreamily at the ceiling. Harry noticed that his mustache was quivering slightly.

Minty had given Harry a variety of different-flavored chewing gums, as well as a comb and bath brush with his name engraved on the handles. Dobby's gift to him was a set of neon yellow and green woolen socks that probably glowed in the dark. Harry's guests laughed openly, and Fred and George Weasley piped in unison, "The Wearer of Socks!"

"Dobby wants Harry Potter to never ever have cold feet!" the little house-elf explained.

"Now that is a noble gift," rumbled Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling amusedly.

Harry opened Bill's gift next, and was very surprised to see a tiny pendant shaped like a sword and impaling a serpent. "It is Goblin-made," Bill explained. "They overheard me telling Fleur that I needed to find a gift for you, and they offered it to me. It seemed appropriate considering your adventures in your second year."

"Wow, thanks," Harry said in awe, as he carefully placed it back in its little wooden box.

Dumbledore's gift followed and it contained two items. One was a Gryffindor Quidditch Captain badge and the other was a tiny, phoenix-shaped pin that Dumbledore explained was an alarm that could be triggered if Harry was ever in trouble or needed help.

"It has several enchantments on it," Dumbledore explained, pointing to an identical copy that was pinned to his chest. "It can alert me from areas that are warded or secluded. Your "distress signal" can be traced within a ten-mile radius. This may not seem too exact, but it is more efficient than any other means that the Ministry employs."

"Why haven't I had one of these before?" Harry asked before he could stop himself, thinking that it could have saved him a lot of trouble in previous years.

"I am afraid that I have only recently invented it," Dumbledore answered apologetically. "It required thorough research and experimentation. It proved to be quite the adventure, putting it all together."

Harry gave his sincere gratitude, marveling at Dumbledore's genius, and promised to always keep the phoenix on him.

Tonks had given him a book titled _So You Want to Become an Auror_ by Kenneth Kurse, while Lupin gave him a hefty supply of chocolate and a wand holster that automatically loosened upon the wand owner's touch.

At last, Harry peeled off the final, small, light-weight package and withdrew a single key on a ring. It was attached to a key chain with a plastic, black dog.

"That is the key to Sirius' motorcycle," Lupin explained gently. "He would have wanted you to have it."

Harry couldn't help the single tear that dripped down his cheek. "Thank you, Remus," he said softly.

There was a moment of silence before Dumbledore raised his glass and called for a toast. "To Sirius Black, our brave comrade," he began. "And to our dear friend, Harry Potter on his sixteenth birthday, that he has a marvelous birthday and many more to come."

"Hear! Hear!" Everyone cheered, and then the surrounding lamps dimmed, while Minty arrived with a flaming cake.

"Happy Birthday to you….Happy Birthday to you…" Everyone sang loudly in the dark room, their faces glowing with gold flickering firelight from Harry's cake. Minty had really out-done herself with the decadent dessert. It was a rich, chocolate, layered cake with thick scarlet icing. Frosted gold snitches adorned the edges with fluttering, tiny wings of delicately-spun sugar. Harry sat, a tremulous smile formed on his face.

It was by far the most unique version of the "Happy Birthday" song that Harry had ever heard. The Weasley twins were making the utmost effort to sing as off-key as possible, while Dumbledore and Minty were singing beautiful harmonies and overlapping counter-melodies. Hagrid's voice boomed over all of them, deep and throaty with emotion, making the chandelier shudder overhead. Harry loved every minute of it. This was probably the best birthday he'd ever had since that fateful day he found out he was a wizard. If only all his days could be happy like this one…

* * *

Later that night, the pitter-patter of little elven footsteps was peppering the wooden flooring of Sugarplum Poplar's corridors. The birthday guests had long-since parted, and there should have been silence amidst the slumbering household. Minty scuttled through the winding passageways, her pointy little ears cocked toward a sound that permeated through the walls. It was coming from Master Harry's bedroom. As she hastened into the room, she froze in her place with a surprised little squeak.

"Help," Harry gasped, his eyes pinched shut, his limbs twisting in his bedding. "Help him! You can't do that!"

Minty disapparated from the room instantly. Moments later, Dumbledore came in, a worried expression encompassing the lines of his face as he strode swiftly to Harry's side. Minty trailed after him.

The boy's face was coated with sweat, his features twisted in pain. He was arching off of the mattress and his hands were scratching at his pajama top, as though he was trying to rip something off of him.

Dumbledore quickly seized Harry's wrists and pinned them to his sides, not wanting the boy to seriously damage himself. Harry struggled and kicked out.

Dumbledore dodged him expertly. "Harry, you are safe here. It is only a dream."

The older wizard didn't even seem fazed by Harry's resistance. He held Harry down firmly but gently, keeping him still.

"You are here with me, with your Headmaster. It is time to come back now."

Harry choked loudly, a gurgling noise in his throat. Dumbledore swiftly rolled him onto his side, where he heaved soundly for a moment. The undulations of his stomach muscles seemed to have jerked him from his dream, for Harry's eyes snapped open, his hand clapping his forehead as Dumbledore gently eased him back onto the pillow.

He cast a quick "_Scourgify" _on the floor beside Harry's bed, and Minty appeared at his elbow holding out a glass of water.

The older wizard thanked the house-elf and helped Harry drink the water. The boy gasped loudly between gulps of the cool liquid, sweat bathing his face and running down his collar in rivulets.

Dumbledore sat down on the edge of Harry's bed, facing the ill teen, his countenance both sad and serious. "Is that better?" he asked gently.

The young wizard nodded, though his eyes glistened with haunted tears. He fixed his gaze upon his knees, trying to block out the harsh images from invading his consciousness. They were both silent for a time, while Harry struggled to calm his breathing.

"You know what I must ask of you, Harry."

Harry shuddered, laying back and pulling up his blanket as though a cold winter wind had blustered its way into the room. He tried to focus his eyes on anything other than Dumbledore. _Why hadn't Occlumency worked tonight? Was the Headmaster disappointed in him? Was Snape right about him all along--was he worthless at trying to block out Voldemort?_ Harry had tried to keep him out, had tried to maintain his wall of concrete and iron, but had obviously failed miserably. His scar continued to throb sharply, sending spasms that ricocheted within his skull and made his eyes water reflexively as he trembled in his prone position.

Dumbledore sat beside Harry patiently, waiting for the boy to make the first move. He had never seen Harry immediately after one of his visions before now, though he had heard about them from others. Witnessing the event was far worse than hearing about it in the second person, he decided. The boy looked so ill and fragile, lying there, very pale and overcome by tremors. His emerald eyes were glistening with alarm, shock, and pain. Dumbledore felt an overwhelming urge to gather Harry in his arms like a young child and simply hold him until the fear and hurt dissipated.

But he didn't do that. He was still the boy's headmaster and though he was very fond of him, and even regarded him as a grandson of sorts in the deepest, most private, treasured compartment of his heart, he knew that he had to keep his professional distance, at least to some degree. He leaned in toward Harry.

"I wish that I could take away this burden from you, that I could spare you from such cruel, unjustified pain and responsibility." He took Harry's hand, embracing it with his own, trying to instill the smallest bit of comfort. "But I am afraid that I cannot. Not at least until I know what has hurt you tonight."

"It's too late," Harry whispered. "It's too late for them."

Dumbledore continued looking at him, his eyes radiating compassion and calm. It soothed Harry and he tried to gather his courage to talk more. He took several breaths before speaking.

"Daedalus Diggle and Florean Fortescue are dead. Voldemort had been torturing them…" he stammered.

The headmaster exhaled sharply through his nose. "Are you certain that it was these two men?"

"Yeah," said Harry, his voice quivering. "I knew Mr. Diggle from m-my childhood. I had seen him occasionally. And-and I know he was in the Order. He helped take me to headquarters the summer before my fifth year. And Mr. F-F-Fortescue—he helped me with my homework the summer before 3rd year. He w-would give me free ice cream.

"He was really nice…" he added, as though it was something he had to say, to make it balance with the wrongful end that this person met. He did not want to remember these men by their deaths, but by the lives they had lived.

His voice fell silent as he felt the corners of his eyes prickle, a forecast for future tears. Dumbledore gripped his forearm and it was almost as though Harry could feel his headmaster's strength and courage flow into his veins. Dumbledore's face was lined with compassion, his eyes deep and consoling.

"How did Mr. Diggle and Mr. Fortescue die, Harry?"

From a great distance, Harry heard a strange snuffling sound, like a cross between a hiccup and a whimper. He realized that it came from himself. He bit his lip as he felt his chin begin to tremble, his teeth chattering like white chips of ice in a metal tumbler.

Dumbledore gripped his shoulder.

"It will help you to utter it, Harry. This kind of pain can be shared."

Harry sighed and gazed at Dumbledore, who was perched upon his bed, his presence bringing him warmth and comfort.

"They were in some kind of cavern, at the end of a tunnel," he spoke at last. "Voldemort was there and several Death Eaters…maybe six or so."

He swallowed heavily and Dumbledore gave him another sip of water.

"…And then Voldemort was saying something like, how they can save themselves if they follow him…and if they...if they gave away my location, then they wouldn't have to die."

He paused at this point in his retelling. He wished that Mr. Diggle and Mr. Fortescue hadn't known him. Otherwise, there would have been no need for them to be captured, to be tortured, to be murdered. All that evil occurred just because of him. How big of a liability was Harry? How many others would be slaughtered because of his existence?

"What happened next, Harry?" Dumbledore interjected ever so softly, as though afraid that anything louder would push the boy into shock.

Harry sucked in another rough breath and thought it was best to shove out the rest of the vision before he had a chance to change his mind about speaking of it.

"Then Mr. Diggle was put under some kind of burning spell. At the same time, Mr. Fortescue was being suffocated by something. Voldemort released them after a long time…but they still didn't talk. He demanded my whereabouts yet again, tortured them a second and then a third time, but nothing worked. And then…"

He halted here, trying to find the right words to describe the final atrocity, feeling his skin crawl at the very memory of the emotions that those images invoked within him. He felt bile rise yet again in his throat, but he swallowed it down this time, refusing to give in to that particularly unsavory reflex.

"Voldemort said that they disappointed him and he had grown weary of their antics. Then he raised his wand and some kind of black cloud shot overhead and into the next room. I couldn't see where it was heading. But then there were these…_things_…that entered the room. They may have been people or-or zombies….or…I don't _know _what they were. I had never seen anything like them before. They could have been people, but they were rotten and rather hunched over."

Harry looked up from his lap and saw Dumbledore staring at him, his eyes tired and sad, but he nodded his head encouragingly.

"There were at least twenty of them, and all of a sudden a great mob of them swarmed over Mr. Diggle. They were pulling on his limbs, trying to tear him apart. They were digging their fingers into his face, gouging out his eyes and-and reaching in his mouth to…to strangle him from the inside, I think. He was screaming and then fell silent. Mr. Fortescue was yelling at Voldemort. And then…and then…"

Here he faltered yet again. He was very aware of how shaky and sweaty he had become. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to wipe away the sweat and tears that had pooled there. Dumbledore was silent, patient.

"And then several of those creatures dragged themselves toward Mr. Fortescue. I was standing beside him throughout the whole vision," he added, knowing that Dumbledore cared a lot about where Harry was positioned in his dreams. "And then—and then they were covering him with their bodies. He couldn't even scream. They were so close—so close that I could smell their breath. Their eyes were clouded over; some of them seemed to stare right at me. And then I woke up..."

His voice fell short. The horror of those images made his mouth go dry and his tongue stuck firmly to the roof of his mouth. Dumbledore leaned forward, but Harry wouldn't look at him. "You are far away from that place now. They cannot reach you here."

"But Mr. Diggle and Mr. Fortescue…" Harry mumbled.

Dumbledore bowed his head. "I know, Harry. They were great men and they will be mourned."

Harry was not reassured at all. Dumbledore seemed to know what he was thinking.

"I know that it is a small consolation, my boy. I know that you have been forced quite unfairly to witness their deaths…and just after your birthday, too…but know that what you endured does not merely indicate your courage, but your sense of responsibility as well. By alerting me, you have provided some closure for their families. Sometimes, it is far worse for people to be missing than for them to be dead. When someone has disappeared, they inadvertently leave behind an atmosphere of confusion, desperation, and oftentimes false hope. You have spared their families and friends from this fate. They will not live their days, wandering about, trying to acquire the smallest bit of information to ascertain what had happened. Instead, they can begin the grieving process and move on with their lives, as I'm sure both Daedalus and Florean would have wanted them to do."

Harry nodded his head, staring determinedly at his own fists clenched tightly in his lap, willing his tears and bile to stay within him. He swallowed a couple of times, his throat chafing with each muscle movement. Dumbledore offered the water glass again, but Harry shook his head. He didn't trust his stomach.

"What were those things?" Harry asked thickly with his heavy, cotton tongue.

Dumbledore sighed, and Harry looked up at his headmaster to see a gleam of disgust, like sickly oil, in the man's azure eyes. "They are called Inferi," he said. "They are corpses of Voldemort's unfortunate victims. There is a dark spell that Voldemort uses to animate them, to have them do his bidding. In the first war with Voldemort he had raised an entire army of them. It is no vast surprise to find out that he has done so again."

Harry could only gaze at his headmaster, horrified. "But does that happen to all of his victims? Do the Death Eaters raise them too?" He paused for a second, too afraid to voice his next fear, yet too horrified not to. He knew that if he didn't ask, then his suspicions would eat him from the inside out. His voice stammered, "Are my…my parents Inferi?"

"No, Harry, no," said Dumbledore, quickly soothing him. He reached forward and took both of Harry's hands. "I can wholeheartedly assure you that your parents are resting peacefully at their grave in Godric's Hollow. I myself oversaw their internment to the ground and placed protective spells upon them, so that no vengeful person could possibly desecrate their rest."

The young wizard breathed an enormous sigh of relief and Dumbledore released his hands, pushing himself off of the bed's edge and to his feet. "I am going to fetch you a Dreamless Sleep Potion, Harry. You have had to endure something inhumane and terrible tonight, and both your body and your mind need to rest."

"No!" Harry yelled, surprising himself at his resonant defiance. "Please don't put me to sleep! I can't stand to do that after what happened!"

He flung the covers off of himself and practically leaped out of the bed. His legs buckled a little bit, still trembling from the memory of the nightmare. Dumbledore steadied him and sat him down at the edge of the bed.

"Harry, I am trying to help you."

"Please don't make me sleep," Harry whispered, despising the pleading, desperate tone that inflected his voice.

Dumbledore looked at him for a moment, his eyes guarded. Harry could tell that his headmaster was considering something.

"Very well, Harry. I understand. Perhaps some distraction will be more beneficial for you. Put your dressing robe on and follow me please."

Harry rose, feeling overwhelmed with relief. He clutched his robe tightly around him, as though he was desperate to cling to the warmth of his own body, his heart pumping warm blood, proof of his life, unlike the cold, clammy Inferi. He shakily followed Dumbledore.

"I want you to accompany me to my study. You do not have to sleep at the moment, but I would still like to keep an eye on you." He led Harry through the winding corridors, a hand guiding his elbow.

Harry followed along rather shakily. There seemed to be a cold chill in the air that was puncturing his bones, seeping into the marrow. The sweat on his body had cooled, so that all he felt was an icy dampness. Every shadow was flickering dangerously, as though a mangled corpse was lurking there, waiting to lunge forward.

They had reached Dumbledore's study. Dumbledore ushered him inside and settled him in a velvet-cushioned chair beside a table with a globe of a moon. A sizzling sound soon followed and Harry looked up just in time to see a spark shoot out of Dumbledore's wand and ignite the cold fireplace. The room was bathed in a warm glow, and Harry's tremors eased slightly as he hunched over in his seat. Dumbledore reached into a cabinet and pulled out a heavy blanket. He draped it over Harry, tucking it around his shoulders.

"Thanks," Harry chattered gratefully, starting to feel the warmth ease his shudders.

Dumbledore's hand remained on Harry's left shoulder for a while until Harry calmed down a bit, evened his breathing, reassured by Dumbledore's presence. Harry's eyes drifted to the moon globe and his hands traced the various ridges and craters of the textured sphere.

Dumbledore observed where Harry's attention was focused. "Have you studied the moon in detail in your Astronomy classes?"

Harry turned his haunted, glazed eyes away from the globe and focused them on his headmaster's kindly blue ones. "No sir," he mumbled. "We don't learn that until sixth year."

"Here, Harry," Dumbledore reached into the massive bookcase and withdrew an olive-colored book. He thumbed through the yellowed pages and opened up to a diagram, placing the book onto the table before Harry. "These are the names of all of the features on the moon. Descriptions of the name origins, as well as theories surrounding the formation of these features are on the pages following the diagram. If you are agreeable, and since you have expressed interest in the subject, I suggest you busy yourself with identifying parts of the moon. I always find that studying is a worthy distraction from my own mind."

Harry nodded and leaned over the ancient volume. He felt Dumbledore pat him on the back before he strode over to the other side of the room. As Harry buried his nose into the diagram, a finger shakily tracing a crooked mountain range, he heard Dumbledore call out Kingsley Shacklebolt's name. Harry jerked his head up. He could see Dumbledore kneeling in front of the fireplace, sharing a conversation with the Auror. Harry couldn't see Kingsley's face, though he heard surprise and a touch of sadness in his voice as he reiterated the news that Florean Fortescue and Daedalus Diggle were indeed reported missing by their families that very morning. Harry wished his ears would close up. He simply did not want to hear it.

Instead, he busied himself with identifying some of the lunar mountain ranges. He noticed that most of them were named after famous Muggles from numerous different countries, though some of the names were christened after mythological characters as well.

He looked at various mountain ridges and wrinkle ridges on the moon, with names like _Dorsa Cato _and _Dorsa Rubey_. The largest mountain that he could see was _Mons Huygens _(5.5 kilometers), which was within a range that bordered _Mare Imbrium_, a smoother patch of the moon which was created by lava flow long ago.

Harry continued identifying features within the book and matching them to the three-dimensional moon globe. He mouthed the names of the mountains, valleys, craters, and ridges, trying to distract himself from paying attention to Dumbledore's instructions to Kingsley Shacklebolt.

He traced a large crater near the center of the far side of the moon, the side which wasn't facing the earth. It was near the craters _Icarus_ and _Racah_. He pressed his finger to the miniscule number within the large crater and then perused the list of names on the opposite page.

_Number 49…Daedalus_.

Harry felt his heart stutter and an uncomfortable prickling sensation raced up his spine. _A decomposed hand was reaching for the terrified man's face…choked, gurgling screams…_

He slammed the moon book shut and swept it to the other side of the table, letting his head fall onto his arm. His ears picked up the sound of Dumbledore's approaching footsteps.

"Do you feel as though you can return to your bed now?"

"No," said Harry while adamantly shaking his head into the crook of his elbow. "I don't think I can sleep right now." He lifted his head and peered at Dumbledore's worn face. "But you can go to bed if you want. You shouldn't have to stay up just because of me."

Dumbledore shook his head firmly. "No, Harry. If you cannot sleep, then I cannot either. No, let me finish," he added as Harry opened his mouth in protest. "It does not feel right to me, to be resting when my ward is experiencing so much discomfort and anxiety. Please do not feel concerned for my sake, Harry. In the long run, I know that I get more sleep than you, and I have methods of catching up to rest that I have lost. You, on the other hand, are a growing boy, and your body and mind demand more sleep. This would not be the first night that I have lost sleep over you, and most likely, it will not be the last. Please do not feel guilty or regretful for my sake. I certainly do not mind staying up with you, until you are ready to sleep."

Harry saw the determined glint in Dumbledore's eyes and knew that there was no point in arguing.

"What would you like to do, Harry? Would you like to play chess in the parlor or continue with your reading?"

Harry shook his head. He felt very edgy and jittery, as though his nerves were dancing. "I can't sit anymore," he said. "I want to move."

Dumbledore nodded knowingly. "Ah, I see. Indeed, exercise can be a healthy distraction from one's thoughts. Please come with me."

Harry rose gingerly to his feet. "What, are we going for a walk?"

"I was gravitating toward swimming, actually. I find it very soothing. Would you care to join me?"

Harry followed, but began to feel a little embarrassed. "Sir, I don't have any swimming trunks."

"No worries, Harry. I can transfigure some for you. This way."

Harry walked quickly in the wake of Dumbledore's vast, graceful strides, trying to keep up. He remained silent, suddenly realizing that he was tired of talking. Flickering candlelight from Dumbledore's candelabra set ominous shadows on the walls and Harry shivered violently, suddenly remembering the dusky Inferi with their jerky and irregular movements, their fetid breath, their probing hands…

He suddenly walked right into Dumbledore. Apparently, he had sped up without even realizing it. Dumbledore turned around and gently gripped his shoulder.

"Are you all right, Harry?" His face held concern and sympathy.

Harry nodded his head, and then looked determinedly at the ground. He shuddered again.

"Hmm. Your body language communicates otherwise. Would you like to sit down and talk some more?" When Harry didn't answer, Dumbledore said softly, "What is it that I can do to help you?"

Harry shrugged. "I'll just go swimming," he whispered.

"Very well. We're almost there," Dumbledore said, and without removing his hand from Harry's shoulder, gently steered him down the corridor.

Harry felt comforted by Dumbledore's gentle guidance. His hand felt warm and strong on his shoulder. He suddenly felt very thankful that he was here instead of at the Dursleys. If he would have had that vision at the Dursleys, he didn't know how he could have coped. He probably would have been paralyzed in his bed. Or his screaming could have woken the Dursleys again. Then he'd really be in trouble.

"Here we are," Dumbledore said softly. He opened a pair of polished double doors and Harry immediately felt a gush of warm, humid air wash over him. They were in the pool room. Harry remembered vaguely peeking into this room during Dumbledore's tour a couple days ago, but his mind was so sluggish tonight that he could barely remember anything that Dumbledore had said about it.

Dumbledore brought Harry out of his feeble musings by handing him a folded pair of swimming trunks. "There's a changing booth over there."

Harry looked over to see two tall square tents with blue and white pinstripes up against the far wall. They reminded him of the kinds of tents one would see at public beaches.

He slowly walked into one of the tents and fastened the door flap. He shakily sank down onto the wooden bench and rested his hands upon his knees. He still felt rather dizzy.

He removed his pajamas and pulled the swimming trunks on slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements, at least until his vertigo ebbed away. The trunks were of a soft, black material and they fell down to about mid-thigh. His bare chest broke out in goose pimples, despite the tropical air around him. He surmised that the chill came from within him.

Harry emerged from the tent and saw that Dumbledore was already dressed in his swimming attire. Harry goggled at his Headmaster. He was wearing the most old-fashioned swimming suit he had ever seen. It looked like something that Muggle men used to wear in the early quarter of the century. It was a dark blue and white striped one-piece that fell down to Dumbledore's knees. Though Dumbledore was an old man, Harry couldn't help but admire the good care that he exercised over his body. Despite his headmaster's thinness, Harry could still see a defined muscle tone to his arms and legs. For a man who seemed to be so obsessed with sweets, he had very little excess body fat.

Harry hoped that he could take good care of his fitness when he reached Dumbledore's age…well…if he lived that long. At the moment, it seemed questionable as to whether he would even live to see his 17th birthday.

Dumbledore was crouching at the water's edge, wand extended, with the tip of the elegant wood touching the surface. His wand suddenly glowed orange and rippled waves ricocheted across the pool. Apparently satisfied, he withdrew his wand and straightened up, turning to Harry. "Just a little warming spell," he stated.

Harry nodded gratefully, conscious of how chilled his skin felt, and directed his trembling legs to the edge of the pool. He was about to drop into the water, when Dumbledore threw out his arm to block Harry.

"I would prefer that you begin in the shallow end, Harry, at least until your trembling ceases."

Harry inclined his head slowly and followed Dumbledore to the other end of the pool to a curved terrace that descended into the water.

Dumbledore entered the water quite gracefully and eased into a smooth breaststroke. Harry watched him keenly, suddenly wishing that he had taken swimming lessons. He slowly stepped down the stairs, letting the silky water warm his legs. When he reached the bottom stair, he sat down, letting the water seep over his shoulders.

Dumbledore was already back at this point, having completed his lap. His silver hair and beard lay flat and gleaming. His half-moon glasses, still perched snugly on his nose, were clear of any water droplets.

"May I borrow your glasses for a moment, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, seeming to know where Harry's attention was directed. Harry withdrew the spectacles and handed them over, trying to ignore how the room became blurred and distorted. Dumbledore withdrew his wand from a holster within his bathing suit and tapped Harry's glasses.

"There. That should keep the water off of your glasses."

"Thanks, sir," Harry murmured. Dumbledore sat down on the stairs beside him, his beard swirling around in the little eddies of the current.

"A sickle for your thoughts, Harry."

Harry snorted, staring at the rippled water. "My thoughts aren't worth all that," he replied.

"True, dear boy. I should offer a Galleon instead."

Harry turned to his headmaster. He was smiling at him in a very reassuring and earnest sort of way. Harry cracked a small smile in return. He couldn't really explain it, but he suddenly felt much calmer than he had in a long while. Perhaps it was because he was sitting in warm, pacifying water that tickled his neck and relaxed his muscles. Or maybe it was the comforting presence of Dumbledore, who seemed to light up any kind of darkness. For whichever reason, though, Harry felt at ease for the first time that night. His heartbeat receded to a gentler cadence and his tremors ceased within the thick, silky water. He scooped his hand in the liquid, cupping the water at eye-level and allowing it to trickle out between his fingers.

He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Dumbledore was observing him. He suddenly realized that he hadn't responded to Dumbledore's query.

"I was just thinking," he began, "that I am feeling much better now, and that I'll be fine as long as I don't dwell too much on that vision."

"I'm glad to hear it, my boy. Yours is a very heavy burden to bear. I am quite relieved that the weightless quality of the water has alleviated some of that burden. I often find that it mollifies me too."

"I can tell," Harry commented. "You swim very well. I mean, compared to anyone else I know. You must practice a lot."

Dumbledore chuckled and twiddled his thumbs in the water. "Thank you for the compliment, Harry. And no, I do not practice as much as I would like. Once you learn a stroke, however, it is difficult to forget it. Do you swim much, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. "I can keep myself from drowning, but that's about all…though I'd like to learn how to swim someday."

"Hmm," Dumbledore exhaled. "Why not begin today?"

"What? You—you'll teach me?"

"Yes." And then he scooped both of his hands beneath the surface and withdrew a small puddle of water, mimicking Harry's earlier movements. He peered at his hands for a moment, a thoughtful look upon his wizened face, before he turned to Harry and wordlessly dumped the water over his head.

"Hey!" Harry exclaimed, water dripping down his face, surprised at the headmaster's nerve. Dumbledore's mustache twitched, his eyes full of youthful mirth.

"Well, if you really want to learn how to swim properly, you will have to get your head wet too," he said in a very serious, headmasterly tone.

* * *

**A/N:** Well, I hope you liked it! I already have part of the next chapter already written out, so hopefully, it won't take me quite so long to post. Please review and let me know what you think. There are some days where your reviews are the only things that keep me going with this fic, so they are much appreciated! Thank you so much for all of you who have reviewed the previous chapters. You know who you are:) I hope to reply to each of your reviews as they come, instead of putting my replies below. I look forward to hearing from you, and have a great day! 


	8. The Poster Boy

**Disclaimer:** All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of JK Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

**Author's Note:** Woohoo! This chapter came out much sooner than I expected. I think I will try to adhere to no longer than a two-month period in between updates, since that worked pretty well for me. Some of you had inquired about the timeline of this story, so I thought I should make a point in saying that I don't intend this story to be just a summer fic. I have it planned out to last through Harry's full sixth year. There should be well over 20 chapters in all…probably closer to 30. Hmm…I can't think of anything else to say, but to thank all of you for reading this far. Honestly, it's you guys that truly keep me going. Thank you so much and I hope you enjoy Chapter Eight!! Have fun!

* * *

_Previously on Ch. 7…_

_Harry shook his head. "I can keep myself from drowning, but that's about all…though I'd like to learn how to swim someday."_

"_Hmm," Dumbledore exhaled. "Why not begin today?"_

"_What? You—you'll teach me?"_

"_Yes." And then he scooped both of his hands beneath the surface and withdrew a small puddle of water, mimicking Harry's earlier movements. He peered at his hands for a moment, a thoughtful look upon his wizened face, before he turned to Harry and wordlessly dumped the water over his head._

"_Hey!" Harry exclaimed, water dripping down his face, surprised at the headmaster's nerve. Dumbledore's mustache twitched, his eyes full of youthful mirth._

"_Well, if you really want to learn how to swim properly, you will have to get your head wet too," he said in a very serious, headmasterly tone._

* * *

**Harry Potter and the Time of Transition**

Chapter 8

_The Poster Boy_

Harry woke up later that afternoon, feeling well-rested and hungry. He hadn't finished his swimming lesson with Dumbledore until about 8 o'clock in the morning, at which point Dumbledore insisted they both retire to their beds. Harry was more than eager to comply, as his eyelids had been drooping for his last two laps.

Dumbledore had been a good instructor. He had modeled the breaststroke for Harry and then let him try. After each lap, he gave him advice on how to kick his legs, and how to windmill his arms properly, as well as how to keep his back straight. After ten laps or so, Harry felt as though he had learned the stroke, though he still couldn't move through the water nearly as fast as Dumbledore.

And the best part of it all was that Harry fell asleep quickly that morning and was uninterrupted by any dreams or visions. He surmised that the intense exercise had successfully emptied his mind.

His swimming success seemed to set a pleasant mood for the next couple of days. Indeed, the first days of August passed with relative ease, which Harry was thankful for. He enjoyed the peace and quiet. He spent most of his time finishing his homework and perusing Dumbledore's library, though he avoided the moon book. It reminded him too much of Daedalus and Florean. He wasn't tempted to explore much outside either, since it had been steadily raining for the past 72 hours. A mist permeated around the windows, which Dumbledore said was partly due to the dementors' breeding. The headmaster seemed optimistic, however, that with the right amount of wind, some of that gloomy fog would roll out of the valley pretty soon.

Harry kept up his strength by swimming. He had really enjoyed his lesson with Dumbledore and had wanted to continue practicing various swimming strokes. The headmaster was delighted by Harry's interest, though he pointed out that Harry could only swim when either Minty or himself were present in the pool room.

As for Occlumency lessons, they had only had one since Harry's vision with the Inferi. Dumbledore had emphasized that they still needed to build up Harry's defenses, especially since some of Voldemort's activities could break through with ease. They had spent an hour practicing with Harry's wall—building it and maintaining it under various pressures. Harry always had a headache afterwards, but it didn't last for too long. Dumbledore always seemed to be able to tell at which point during the lesson Harry had been pushed to his max and would end the lesson immediately.

* * *

The morning of the 3rd of August began normally enough, as Harry got out of bed and attended to his morning routine. Over breakfast, however, as Harry was idly dragging his spoon through his porridge, he was mildly surprised as Hedwig dropped an envelope on the table. He pushed his bowl toward the exhausted and hungry bird and began to examine the thick paper wrapping. It was from the Ministry of Magic. He broke the red, wax seal and unfolded the letter within. 

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_Greetings from the Minister of Magic, and all of the departments within the Ministry! The Ministry commends you on your various successes at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and wishes you good fortune on all your future endeavors. Your advanced accomplishments have caught the attention of several government officials who are eager to meet you and congratulate you in person. You are invited to attend a small, informal meeting with Rufus Scrimgeour, the Minister of Magic, who is more than willing to devote his entire morning to you. This is a grand opportunity that has rarely been offered to a student before, and you are strongly implored to accept. During this meeting, Minister Scrimgeour will review your O.W.L. scores with you and guide you on a tour through the prestigious Auror Department. To arrive at the Ministry this morning, kindly travel by Floo Network with "Minister of Magic Office" as the destination indicator. Albus Dumbledore's personal study fireplace is already connected. Minister Scrimgeour will be expecting you._

_Kindest regards,_

_Artemia Walscott_

Secretary to the Minister

Harry exhaled slowly and leaned back into his char. His frenzied thoughts were careening around his head like moths bouncing off a light bulb. _Was this another lure of Voldemort?_ It didn't seem to be. Hedwig wouldn't deliver a letter from Voldemort. She usually didn't take mail from the Ministry either, but she had previously been staying at the Weasley's since Harry's last letter to Ron. Perhaps Mr. Weasley had borrowed her to send mail to the Ministry and then the Minister got a hold of her there. Harry glanced at his pet who was preoccupied with preening herself, nibbling porridge off of her breast feathers.

_What exactly did the Ministry want from him?_ His O.W.L. results were a pretty weak reason for summoning him. He knew his grades couldn't be _that _good. He had been wondering why his scores hadn't been mailed to him yet. They were supposed to have arrived around mid-June, but apparently the Ministry had been holding them as a means to meet with him.

Dumbledore had told him that he was meeting at the Ministry this particular morning for some business with the Wizengamot. This was not uncommon at all. Dumbledore was usually away for three or four hours each day, which didn't bother Harry too much, except for the fact that it made him feel a bit awkward about being in Dumbledore's house. He always took extra care to be neat and cautious around the house, afraid of accidentally causing damage. He couldn't help but feel that he didn't belong, that he wasn't worthy to occupy the same space as the prestigious wizard.

Harry had practiced swimming again that very morning. He had wanted to make it a daily routine. After all, if he was destined to fight Voldemort, it wouldn't hurt to be in good physical shape.

Dumbledore had joined him as well. The mage's body cut across the water like a knife through jam. Harry's stroke was still a little awkward, but Dumbledore assured him that his coordination would improve with practice. Harry appreciated his Headmaster's company during exercise. It was nice to just work individually on a physical activity, without dealing with intellectual and emotional issues that he usually covered with Dumbledore. He still cringed whenever he thought of his rash decision to go to the Department of Mysteries, and furthermore, his corresponding breakdown in front of Dumbledore. He had lost all control of his emotions—and in front his headmaster too!

Dumbledore had seemed to understand, had even been comforting to him. Dumbledore had always seemed so stoic, professional, and even a tad withdrawn when it came to emotion. Therefore, it seemed so surprising to see Dumbledore outside of the school setting, to witness his compassion and tenderness that had always been present at school, but deeply buried for propriety's sake. Harry reckoned that he may be one of the very few people to have witnessed this side of Dumbledore.

At the same time, Harry knew that he had several unresolved emotional issues of his own, particularly about the Prophecy, but he hadn't voiced any of them to Dumbledore. Moreover, Dumbledore did not press the issue. It seemed to Harry that the headmaster was waiting for him to bring up the subject, to make the first move himself.

Re-reading the Ministry letter for the fifth time, Harry decided that it wouldn't hurt to go to the Ministry. The letter did imply some urgency and the last thing he wanted was to start off on the wrong foot with the new Minister. Yet he still was not comfortable with going to the Ministry without telling Dumbledore first. _But Dumbledore is already there_, that little voice in the back of his head reasoned. _You can ask the Minister if you could see Dumbledore first._

Having made up his mind, Harry fetched his wand and a robe from his wardrobe and made his way to Dumbledore's study. He told Minty that he wouldn't be seen until around noon. It wasn't exactly a lie, but he knew that he was implying that he would be holed up in his room for most of the morning, instead of actually leaving Sugarplum Poplar. He pushed his guilt aside, grasped some Floo Powder, stated the appropriate destination, and felt himself get sucked into the chimney. After a dizzying array of swirling hearths and crackling heat, Harry shot out of a fireplace and landed on an expensive-looking rug. He immediately rose to his feet and saw that he was facing a desk that was inhabited by a rather surprised-looking man.

The man's tawny hair was thick and wild, with a matching grizzled beard speckled on his face. He looked like a stern and imposing man, one who definitely adorned his authority upon his visage.

"Harry Potter," he stated, and closed his gaping mouth with an audible click of his teeth. A joyful expression flushed upon his weathered face for a moment, as he made his way around his ornate desk and enthusiastically pumped Harry's hand.

"I was hoping you would stop by today," he exclaimed. "But I never thought you would be so prompt! I mean, with your current…er…situation and all…Well! I believe introductions are in order! I am Rufus Scrimgeour, former head of the Auror Department and newly appointed Minister of Magic."

Harry nodded his head in acknowledgement. The Minister had a very gravelly voice, as though it had roughened from years of barking out orders. He reminded him a bit of a less scarred version of Mad-Eye Moody. Harry imagined that Mr. Scrimgeour was a fierce Auror in his younger days.

The Minister indicated for Harry to take the seat in front of his desk and Harry did so, suddenly feeling nervous and in the spotlight. Minister Scrimgeour quickly finished scribbling a note on a purple parchment, which folded into an airplane shape and shot out the door, whizzing down the corridor. The door shut with an audible click. Harry thought it sounded like a prison door locking into place. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Tea, Harry?" Scrimgeour asked, while pouring himself a cup from a silver tea pot.

"No, thank you," Harry said, and spared a glance around the elegant office, taking in the dark, wood-paneled walls and gilded portraits of stuffy-looking former ministers.

"I suppose that you may be feeling a little intimidated," the Minister began. "But I hope you can view me as both an ally and a friend. I regard your safety and well-being to be one of my highest priorities, and I would like you to consider me as a trustworthy person whom you can easily confide in."

Harry squirmed uncomfortably under the man's hawk-like gaze. _Confide in him? About what? Did the Minister expect a response from him?_

"Actually, sir," Harry said. _Why did his voice sound so timid? _"I wanted to talk to Dumbledore before we began our meeting. You see, he…er…doesn't know that I'm here, and I thought I should tell him, before he starts to…um…well, worry."

The Minister's smile seemed to flicker for an instant, but he smoothly tried to cover up his dissatisfaction.

"All in good time, Harry, dear lad. I admire your consideration for your elders. That is very mature of you. I believe Albus is at a meeting with the Wizengamot at the moment, and he will most likely not be finished for a little while. We can go and snag him on our way to our tour of the Auror Department, though! In the meantime, would you like to see your O.W.L. scores?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry, while taking note of the Minister's reluctance to involve Dumbledore. Scrimgeour reached into a drawer and withdrew an unsealed envelope. He handed it to Harry.

"Thank you, Minister," Harry said, as he looked at his O.W.L. results.

**Ordinary Wizarding Level Results**

**Harry James Potter has received:**

**Astronomy—A **

**Care of Magical Creatures—E**

**Charms—E**

**Defense Against the Dark Arts—O**

**Divination—P**

**Herbology—E**

**History of Magic—D**

**Potions—E**

**Transfiguration—E**

They could have been better, but considering the circumstances of the exam week, let alone the whole year, they could have been so much worse.

Harry looked up to see the Minister surveying him, a congenial grin warmed upon his face. His eyes, however, were rather shrewd.

"You have an inner strength about you, Mr. Potter," he said rather suddenly.

"Er…thanks," Harry said to the parchment, embarrassed by the compliment.

"I can see why the Dark Lord is interested in you, and why you just may be a worthy contender," Scrimgeour said slowly and carefully.

Harry jerked his head upward in surprise. The Minister was leaning forward, his features pressed into an expression of intensity the like of which Harry had never seen before. Harry felt a sense of alarm wash over him. _Did the Minister know the Prophecy? Am I going to be interrogated? _He hoped the Minister couldn't sense how nervous he had suddenly become. Harry felt beads of sweat condense along his hairline and at the base of his neck. He could feel his heart bludgeoning against his ribcage. A swirl of nausea curled within him and he hoped he wouldn't throw up all over the Minister's expensive rug. _Just be cool. Be calm, _he told himself. _Dumbledore said that only you and him know the full Prophecy. The Minister is trying to get you to reveal something…_

It all suddenly made sense to Harry. This was the reason he had been summoned. It had nothing to do with O.W.L.'s or Auror tours. This was about Harry's relationship with Voldemort, and about the circumstances behind the June incident at the Ministry. Anger flared in him strong and hot. He pushed it down. Scrimgeour's next words confirmed Harry's suspicions.

"I have been very interested in you, Harry," the Minister continued as he leaned forward over his desk. He looked like a cat waiting to spring. "I would like to understand better what happened in the Department of Mysteries at the end of June. I am afraid that the details were all jumbled up, and I would very much like to hear a first-hand account from you."

Harry forced himself to give the Minister a neutral expression as he frantically tried to organize his scrambled thoughts. _What should he say? How much should he say? Could the Minister make him talk if he refused to do so willingly?_

Scrimgeour clasped his hands together expectantly.

At that moment, Harry chose to just give the simple and honest answer. "I don't think I can tell you anything about that. I'm sure the information that Dumbledore gave is pretty accurate. I'm sure you can, you know, just use that for your records."

The Minister frowned. "I know what Dumbledore's account was, Harry. I would like to hear yours, now. As Minister of Magic, it is my duty to examine all perspectives involved in significant occurrences here at the Ministry."

It seemed to Harry that the Minister was now going to use his authority to persuade him. This was definitely beyond his ability to handle. He couldn't overpower the Minister's demands…

"I have to see Dumbledore," Harry said in a small voice, while getting to his feet.

"All in good time, Harry. All in good time," the Minister said, rising from his chair as well. He was grinning broadly now, his eyes gleaming. Harry could tell that Scrimgeour had noted his anxiety and was apparently pleased by it. "Why don't we go on our tour now, and we can continue this discussion later," he said smoothly. "Dumbledore will probably be finished by then."

"Can't—can't we go get him now? Maybe if he knew I was here, he could take a break or—or something."

"No, I don't think it works that way, dear boy," Scrimgeour said in a weak attempt at sounding regretful. "Patience is a virtue! Don't worry. I promise that I won't let you get bored while we wait for the Wizengamot to adjourn."

He clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder and steered him out of the office, into a lift, and down onto a different floor.

"This way, Harry," he said jovially as they made their way down a corridor and around a corner.

Suddenly, Harry's vision was engulfed by a maelstrom of moving witches and wizards. He faltered.

The next thing he knew, he felt himself being ushered into the crowd of people. They were all swarming around him like frenzied bees, shouting, "There he is! The Chosen One!" They were grabbing him, pressing in on him, touching him reverently, as though he were exuding some kind of contagious strength. Harry tried to squirm away, but Rufus Scrimgeour held an iron grip around his upper arms from behind. Eager and awed faces of witches and wizards alike swirled around Harry, who was blushing and stammering in embarrassment.

He felt as though he was on a carousel…the people around him were spinning wildly as the Minister turned Harry's body to various well-wishers, and fawners alike. Their faces blurred and his body felt numb to their touches, their paternal pats on his back, the ruffling of his hair…one witch even goosed him from the side. Harry felt that he was observing the scene as someone else, yet he continued to reel back from the overloaded contact.

Scrimgeour seemed completely unaware of Harry's attempts to get away. He kept proclaiming loudly to the crowd, "Harry Potter just stopped by to convene with our Auror Department! Yes, he's been coming here quite frequently these past couple of weeks!"

Abruptly, the imaginary carousel seemed to halt and Harry could focus again. He dug the heel of his foot down hard onto Minister Scrimgeour's toes, silencing him abruptly. "I want to leave _now_," he demanded.

"Now, now, Harry. Surely a couple more--"

"No. I never agreed to do this. I want to go back."

Harry watched as the Minister seemed to deflate right before his very eyes.

"Very well, Mr. Potter. This way, then." And keeping his hand firmly wrapped around Harry's elbow, he steered him back to the lift, a tight, false smile implanted upon his face. A dense mob of people were crowding around the grille, their faces flushed with excitement.

"Harry Potter! Could you please sign my hat for my daughter?"

"Mister Potter! I can't thank you enough for showing your support--"

"Can I see your wand?"

"May I put my hand on your scar…for luck?"

Bright flashes of light sparked all around him, accompanied by dense clouds of purple smoke.

"Nice big smile for the camera, Harry!"

Harry instinctively raised his arm in front of his face, as if he were warding off a blow. _White explosions…emerald wand flashes…a child's scream…_

His knees buckled suddenly and he would have fallen to the ground if it weren't for Scrimgeour's fingers grasping his elbow. He hoisted Harry upright and declared loudly, "Back away now! Let the man breathe!" Harry could detect the carefully-controlled alarm in his voice.

The crowd seemed to heed the Minister's warning, and stepped back.

"Is he alright?" a witch's voice called from the back.

"Oh, he's just fine! Your apt enthusiasm and loyalty just overwhelmed him a bit, that's all!" Scrimgeour called out cheerily.

"Are you alright, Harry, my boy?" he muttered softly from the corner of his mouth.

"Let me see Dumbledore," Harry said faintly, ignoring the Minister's question, his voice low and uneven. "I've had enough of this."

Scrimgeour looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Well…I...am not sure that Dumbledore is available yet. The Wizengamot may still be in session."

"Take me to Dumbledore," Harry insisted. "I am his ward and he doesn't know that I'm here, does he? You didn't tell him."

"Well, you see…ah…the point is…wanted privacy," Minister Scrimgeour looked particularly uncomfortable.

"I came here to talk to Dumbledore first," Harry said, searching the Minister's face wildly for some sign of acceptance or understanding. "I need to see him."

Harry felt a hollow space form deep in his gut. Dumbledore needed to know that he was here. Yet part of Harry had wanted to dash back to Sugarplum Poplar and pretend that he had never left. But he knew that Dumbledore would have found out anyway. Word that he was at the Ministry was probably going to spread like earthquake tremors along a fault line. He wouldn't be surprised if his face was already being printed on the Daily Prophet, complete with news story about him being all chummy with the Minister. Or worse, what if they would report his near collapse? Would healers from St. Mungo's be called in soon? Well, all last year the wizarding world thought he was a nutter anyway…so what would another year matter?

Harry felt as though Nagini was constricting around his stomach. He did not look forward to facing Dumbledore. After all his headmaster had done for him, after he had saved him in the Death Chamber, this was how Harry repaid him. Harry couldn't bear to go behind Dumbledore's back again. _Yet you already have, _that nasty voice inside his head cackled. _You're here, aren't you? You left Sugarplum Poplar without permission…_

"I shouldn't be here," Harry continued to Scrimgeour in a now-slurring voice. The Minister still didn't respond. "Dumbledore will be looking for me!"

"All right, Harry. I'm taking you back to my office," the Minister conceded in his gruff voice. "Don't worry, lad. I'll have Dumbledore join us there. I meant to speak with him today, anyway."

Harry's legs felt a little stronger as the Minister began ushering him through the crowd, but he was still dizzy and his head hurt. They wheeled around a corner and eventually the crowd stopped following them, finally realizing that neither Harry nor the Minister was up for any more questions or meetings. The two of them continued walking in silence, the only noise coming from the whistling of purple inter-departmental memos that soared like raptors over their heads.

Then they turned another corner and Dumbledore was there, looking resplendent in cobalt-colored robes.

Harry's stomach felt as though it had become an indecisive lift, as it first elevated, and then dropped like a meteorite. Dumbledore's face was hard and grave as he surveyed both Harry and Minister Scrimgeour. There was no visible anger or surprise on his visage, only a cool, forcibly calm exterior. What true emotion was churning behind that sophisticated shell, Harry did not know. At first, he had felt immense relief at seeing his headmaster, but then it had quickly switched to embarrassment and shame. He couldn't imagine how disappointed Dumbledore was. Harry had probably lost any trust that his headmaster had ever had for him.

"Albus," Scrimgeour said hastily, breaking the silence. "I was just escorting young Harry to meet with you."

"Indeed," said Dumbledore politely. "Yet I am afraid that I do not understand why Mr. Potter has been here for the past twenty-six minutes, and it is only now that you are determined to let his guardian know of his whereabouts."

"Well, you see…privacy matter…O.W.L.s…wanted to congratulate him in person--"

"Rufus," Dumbledore interrupted, staring at the Minister over the top of his half-moon glasses. "I am certain that we both know that that is not the actual reason for why you summoned Harry here today. Oh, that is the surface reason, an excuse by which you can justify your actions. But that is not your underlying purpose. I am certain that even Harry has caught onto your ploy by now."

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry croaked. Dumbledore's calm face seemed to crease slightly in concern at Harry's wavering voice and eyes glazed in pain. He was instantly at Harry's side, a hand upon his shoulder, peering into the boy's face.

"Are you alright, Harry?"

Scrimgeour had already begun to answer before Harry even had the chance to open his mouth.

"He just had a funny episode near the lifts. A bit overwhelmed by all his fans, I'm sure. Slight dizzy spell."

Dumbledore ignored the Minister. "Harry?"

Harry shrugged bashfully and carefully extricated his elbow from Scrimgeour's sweaty grip. He didn't want to describe the memory that the flash photography had produced, nor the corresponding scar pain and vertigo. The Minister had probably already thought he was a lunatic to begin with. Harry didn't want to instigate a future commitment to St. Mungo's. He suddenly felt very tired and dazed; all he wanted to do was return to Dumbledore's house.

He stepped away from Scrimgeour and shuffled toward Dumbledore, whose hand rested soothingly on his back as Harry settled next to him. Harry felt his guilt grow so intense that he thought his stomach was going to start devouring itself out of remorse.

"Come, Harry," said Dumbledore. "I believe it is time we returned to my house."

Minister Scrimgeour stepped forward hastily. "But surely, Albus, after you have already established that there are deeper and serious issues that must be addressed, it is pointless to turn our backs on them."

"The matter is not up for discussion," Dumbledore said. It sounded to Harry as though the Minister and Dumbledore had experienced similar conversations before.

"So you _do _know what the Prophecy entails." The Minister's face looked eager and expectant.

"I was there when the Prophecy was foretold. Surely your records confirm it," Dumbledore said. His eyes were not twinkling.

"Then why don't you and Mr. Potter disclose it to me? If you could just step into my office, we can have privacy there." The minister inclined his head.

"I said _no_, Rufus. My answer has not changed since last week or the week before that, and if I may point out, it hardly matters whether or not either Harry or I know the Prophecy. What matters is that the content of prophecies should be under the discretion of those concerned with them, and not to outside parties, unless it is the express wish of the pertaining parties to disclose it. There are deeper powers at work with prophecies, Rufus. You know that the consequences of tampering with them could be inconceivable. If neither Harry nor I are content to discuss it with you, then you will simply have to accept our decision."

"But certainly, there are extenuating circumstances here, Albus! You-Know-Who is back! If there is any information that could contribute to his downfall, then the Ministry must be aware of it! You could use our resources! As an orphaned wizarding minor, the Ministry must take a special interest in Mr. Potter's welfare anyway. My intentions today were only harmless."

Harry was surprised that Rufus Scrimgeour's already feral hair looked even wilder. He could tell that this was a man who was not used to being thwarted. And he seemed desperate to convince Dumbledore to side with his point of view.

Dumbledore was unfazed. He drew himself up even straighter, his height easily surpassing that of the Minister. "Harry is not a ward of the Ministry, and it is therefore not your responsibility to summon him at your whim, and especially only for your own personal gain. Harry is my charge, and I am his guardian. I endeavor to look out for his well-being, and you will always come to me first, before you try to contact him and subject him to star-struck mobs of people while he is completely unprepared!"

This was the first time that Dumbledore exerted some semblance of anger during the conversation. The warlock exuded a suppressed power, his eyes blazing, his mouth set in a firm line. The kind, cheerful, and whimsical wizard at Harry's birthday party was difficult to recognize.

"You are new at office, yes, and this is a very troubled and trying time, yes, Rufus, but you have to realize that there are other ways to be proactive and to establish respect from all wizards and witches, besides peddling Harry as your poster boy, and interrogating him for private, confidential, and dangerous information. He is a human being, not a pawn for the Ministry. It is for him to choose what he wants to do with the little free time that he has, and not for authority figures who should know better than to force him into insalubrious duties that are not his responsibility."

"Is that your decision then?" asked Scrimgeour, without even bothering to hide the iciness in his tone.

"Yes. I believe it is, Rufus," replied Dumbledore calmly, as he already began steering Harry away. "I have finished my work here. If I am needed for any other of my usual Ministry duties, you know how to contact me. Good day."

And he walked away, leaving a very peeved and flabbergasted wizard behind, his only company a swarm of purple memos that zoomed above like violet fireworks.

* * *

Harry kept his eyes cast downward as he and Dumbledore walked down the corridor together. Dumbledore was silent, which to Harry was more deafening than if he raged and thundered at him. He felt as though a bowling ball was lodged in his gut, weighing him down. _Why am I so much trouble for everyone? Why didn't I just stay at the cottage and not go gallivanting off to meet the Minister?_

He clutched his O.W.L letter in his fist. At least he had finally found out his test scores. That was the only good thing that happened during the day. He glanced at his wristwatch and noticed that it was fifteen minutes past noon. Minty was probably frantic by now. Perhaps it was she who had alerted Dumbledore that he was missing. _How had the headmaster found him so quickly at the Ministry?_

After Harry and Dumbledore emerged from the fireplace in Dumbledore's study, the headmaster instructed Harry to follow him into the parlor. Harry's heartbeat was waltzing a fast rhythm at this point, and he kept trying to calm his breathing. Once they had reached the parlor, Dumbledore indicated for Harry to take a seat, and poured them both glasses of pumpkin juice from a pitcher provided by a very nervous and apologetic Minty.

"I is so sorry for not keeping a better eye on Harry Potter, sir!" Minty quipped. "I am most happy that Harry Potter and you are back here safe!"

"It's not your fault, Minty," Harry said miserably, feeling like the world's biggest dolt for hurting her. "It's nobody's fault but mine."

The little elf's eyes welled up, and she nodded in acceptance before leaving the room. Harry wondered if she really believed his words or if she still blamed herself. He hoped she wouldn't punish herself as Dobby would have done.

Cup of pumpkin juice in his hand, Harry allowed the cool glass to alleviate his sweaty palms. At least his head felt back to normal now, though his thoughts seemed all out of sorts. He felt his eyes burn abruptly, and he stared out the window to try to distract himself from his impending tears. He had disappointed Dumbledore. How could he be so ungrateful? How could he be such a failure? Didn't he learn from his previous mistakes? First he put himself, his friends, and the Order in extreme danger when he followed Voldemort's vision back in June. Sirius had paid for his life because of Harry's impulsivity. Then a little over a month later, he allowed himself to be lured yet again to the Death Chamber and almost died himself. Now, less than a week later, he had blindly followed the Minister's summons, without thinking of the potential consequences.

The bridge of his nose stung too, now, and he realized that his tear ducts were becoming hypersensitive. _Focus on the window_, he told himself. He could see a line of tall, ivy-entwined trees beyond a fluffy, grass hill.

"Harry, I would like you to tell me your version of this morning's events."

_Oh no…oh no…oh no…_Harry thought, but it was too late. His tears already spilled from his eyes like water tipping from a basin. They dribbled down his cheeks and soaked his collar and Harry did his very best to stare at the ceiling and to avoid looking at his headmaster.

He vaguely saw Dumbledore's tall form rise from his seat and approach Harry swiftly. "Oh, dear boy, you're not in any trouble. It's alright, now."

"I'm so sorry, sir," Harry said in a constricted voice, very unlike his own. He stared at his knees. "I honestly don't mean to be so difficult! I try to control myself, and to stay out of danger, but…but…it just _happens_ and I don't know how deep I'm involved until it's already too late and—"

"I can see why you are upset, Harry," Dumbledore interrupted gently. "But please do not let the events of today consume you with guilt."

Harry felt Dumbledore sit beside him. He continued to stare at his sweaty hands that were limply sprawled on his knees. For some reason, Dumbledore's presence seemed, despite his placating words, to intensify the guilt roiling within him. He ducked his head, refusing to look at Dumbledore. He clasped his fingers together as tight as a jigsaw puzzle. His face felt hot and tight. Two scorching tears slowly burned their trek down his cheeks. He squared his shoulders, clenching the muscles, hoping to gain some kind of control over himself. There was a barbed knot swelling in his chest, almost as if there was too much pressure inside him, like he was a full kettle about to boil over.

"Relax, Harry," whispered Dumbledore, his voice so soft that it could have been a breath of wind. Harry exhaled the air he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and rubbed his sweaty palms over his jeans. A tear fell. Then another. _Drip. Drip_. He had to say something, if only for the purpose of taking his mind off of his tingling sinuses.

"It's my fault," he said, talking to his knees at last. Just saying those few words took enormous effort. He wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep. He wanted to start this day over, pretend that the events of the morning had never happened. _Who cares about the O.W.L.'s anyway? He should have known the Minister was going to use him…_

Harry found himself explaining everything that had happened that morning, about the arrival of the Ministry letter, of his suspicions of it, of his decision to go to the Ministry to seek out Dumbledore. His mouth twisted bitterly and he stared at his knees, as he recounted how the Minister had sidestepped all of Harry's attempts to consult Dumbledore, had briefly given him the promised O.W. L. scores, and then coerced him into going for a tour of the Auror Department, only to flaunt him in front of masses of clustering witches and wizards. As Harry's voice trailed off, he braced himself for Dumbledore's rebuke at his own idiocy.

"Look at me, Harry."

Harry winced inwardly and slowly raised his head and turned towards Dumbledore. He didn't look at Dumbledore's face, but instead focused on a point near his headmaster's knee.

"Goodness, Harry. I'm afraid you're only halfway there. As much as your very Potter-like hair amuses me, I don't think it would help reciprocate our conversation. I would prefer that I talk to your face instead. Eyes up a little further, please."

Harry flushed embarrassedly, and complied with Dumbledore's request. He raised his head and as emerald irises slowly met sapphire, Harry was relieved to see that Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling amicably—not with judgment, but with encouragement.

"There. That's better, Harry, thank you. Now, I am only going to say this once, so be sure to clear the peanut butter from your ears and pay attention."

Harry knew that Dumbledore was trying to be humorous and light-hearted, but his own funny bone seemed to be broken today. He tried to brace himself for some fragment of comfort that Dumbledore would hopefully offer.

The headmaster sighed sadly at Harry's gloom, but his voice was strong as he emphasized each of his words to Harry.

"_It was not your fault."_

Harry opened his mouth and Dumbledore had already raised his hand, as though he had been anticipating the boy's protest.

"The Minister is the one who is most responsible for the circumstances of this morning. He abused his authority to coerce you into coming to the Ministry. I regret that I was not there for you, when his missive arrived. Otherwise, perhaps I could have advised--"

"But I still shouldn't have gone," Harry interrupted. "I mean, how could I have been so _stupid_?"

He stood up and began pacing around the room, venting out loud as he went. "I already know that the Ministry cannot be trusted. After Dolores Umbridge and all that rubbish that happened last year, I should have known better than to go walking blindly into that place again."

"Harry—"

"How could I be so stupid?" Harry repeated as if he didn't hear the ancient mage's interruption. "You must think I'm the world's biggest prat!"

"Not really, no," said Dumbledore calmly.

"Well, you should!" Harry snapped, seeming to forget that it was his headmaster he was talking to.

"Harry, I think you are being very hard on yourself. Please have a seat and take a moment to calm down."

Harry sat down on the sofa, a disgruntled expression painting his face. He dug his elbow into the arm rest and perched his chin in his open palm.

Dumbledore angled his body so he was facing Harry directly and leaned forward, his keen, blue eyes a little stern. "Minister Scrimgeour overstepped his position today, Harry. He knew that you were with me this summer. He knew that I did not want to arrange a meeting between you. Yet he decided to approach you anyway."

"If he wanted me to come so badly, why didn't he just arrive through the Floo and demand that I go with him?" Harry muttered.

"Because it is impossible to travel to Sugarplum Poplar via Floo, unless a person is accompanied by myself. Anyone can leave via the Floo Network, but not arrive. Rufus decided to approach you politely, using the subtle persuasions and powerful reasoning in his letter. He had your O.W.L.s, and he used your pet, Hedwig, who I am sure you deduced wouldn't deliver mail from a Death Eater."

"But I still shouldn't have gone!"

"Yes, you are right. You should not have left without consulting me first. But what happened this morning is over and done with, Harry, and I forgive you. You made a quick choice, a hasty judgment and you acted upon it. It was neither the safest nor wisest course of action, but I am certain that you have learned a little more caution after today's events."

He took a long drink from his juice before continuing.

"Am I correct in assuming that you did not have your phoenix pin on you?"

Harry felt his heart drop down to his bum. _Idiot_, he hissed silently at himself. That was the simple solution. How could he have forgotten the pin? He probably could have looked into the Foe Glass as well. Maybe Scrimgeour's face would have made an appearance in the vague reflections.

He shook his head miserably.

"Hmmm," Dumbledore said. "I am confident that you will try harder to keep it on your person in the future."

"Yes, sir. I will," Harry said.

"You must understand that there are more than Dark Magic and Voldemort involved with you, Harry. There are politics involved too. And politics can be quite corrupt and messy. We must tread carefully amidst both our enemies and amongst those who govern us."

"How did you find me so quickly?" Harry asked. He was beginning to think more and more that Dumbledore was clairvoyant.

"I knew that the Minister was up to something because his itinerary changed that morning, though he was not specific about why. He kept a three-hour window open for no apparent reason, which to me, was very suspicious. He was supposed to be joining us for the Wizengamot meeting instead. I knew that he was being secretive as of late. Rufus had been inquiring about you and about the Prophecy for the past few days, and I felt it may have been only a matter of time before he would attempt to contact you. Though I must confess, his actions today were both impulsive and unorthodox. I had hoped that he would have reconsidered…"

"So you knew right away that I was there?" Harry asked.

"No, I did not. Rufus had sent a memo to all departments except the Wizengamot shortly after your arrival. The missive stated that you had arrived to show your support for the Ministry and that you would be touring the various facilities. Of course, as Rufus had planned, people would leave their offices in the hopes to meet with you. People have been quite curious since your ordeal at the Ministry at the end of June. Rumors about a prophecy, Lord Voldemort, and the Boy-Who-Lived, have given people the opportunity to develop their own theories about the relationship between you and Lord Voldemort. They believe that you are the only one who can save them, and the Minister wanted to play upon this belief in order to raise morale and confidence in the wizarding government, which has decreased considerably in popularity because of Cornelius Fudge's leadership this past year.

"I was fortunate to have left the Wizengamot meeting, after the important bits and bobs had been addressed, for a quick trip to the loo, and I stumbled upon an excited cluster of witches and wizards who were raving about your arrival. I inquired about the source of their information and they handed me the memo. I set off through various corridors between the Minister's office and the Auror Department in the hopes of intercepting you before you reached the mobs of people, but apparently Scrimgeour moved quickly and managed to get you engulfed by them."

Harry sighed. "Those crowds were mad."

"I know. But you must also understand that these are ordinary people, like you and me, who are frightened by the current situation in our world. You, Harry, are a symbol of light and goodness and strength to this world, and many will turn to you, and cling to you out of desperation and hope. The dynamics of a crowd usually form a hideous and mindless personality that would not reflect that of most individuals by themselves."

Harry leaned back on the comfortable upholstery. He felt a little calmer now about traveling to the Ministry, but he couldn't help but feel as though a plunger of anxiety had pushed through his body at the kind of hope and high expectations that the world had of him. It didn't seem fair and it seemed mind-boggling that strangers would put so much trust on a wizard who was barely sixteen years old. _I don't know if I can live up to their expectations_, he thought.

Dumbledore was gazing at him over his half-moon spectacles. "I feel," he began, "that you are beginning to understand the many risks that are posed to you, being who you are, not just because Voldemort has targeted you, but also because of your celebrity status in this world. When I placed you with your relatives, I knew that you would enter the wizarding world being quite naïve to all of that. I am now having certain regrets as to the repercussions that this has had on you. You are still rushing off into things without using your head properly." He tapped two of his fingers gently on Harry's temple to emphasize his point. "And I therefore feel that it is time to dole out an assignment regarding your actions today."

"You mean a punishment, sir?"

"Yes and no. I suppose it could be regarded as a punishment, because it is an event that follows your behavior and is designed to hopefully decrease the frequency of that behavior; however, this punishment is not arbitrary, but directly related to your actions. The task should not be overly strenuous, but it should hopefully allow you to _think. _I would like you to make a list, to brainstorm that is, at least seventy possible ways that Voldemort could capture you or lead you to possible harm."

"_Seventy!"_

"Oh, yes. I have the fullest confidence in your ability to come up with at least this many clever and creative ways for Voldemort to get to you." Dumbledore looked at his elegant, celestial pocket watch. "I will give you until dinner tomorrow evening. Yes, I think that deadline will be sufficient."

He paused, his eyes now boring into Harry's. "Is there anything else that happened today that you would like to talk about?"

"No," Harry said quickly, pushing down his anxieties about the Prophecy and the vision that the flash photography had induced.

"Very well, Harry. I hope you realize that you can come to me for anything at all." He stood up. "Now, why don't we go have lunch in the dining hall?"

* * *

A couple hours later, Harry and Dumbledore were heading toward the pool room. The headmaster could tell that Harry was still feeling restless and uneasy about the morning's events by the way that he picked at his food. He suggested they swim for a little while, hoping that the exercise would clear Harry's mind and perhaps inspire his appetite. The boy really was looking too thin. 

What concerned Dumbledore most about the morning's events was not so much that Harry had been lured to the Ministry. A missive from the Minister of Magic was very persuasive indeed. No, he did not blame the boy for going. What really concerned him was Harry's reaction. The boy seemed to be deteriorating as each day passed. He was doing much better than he had the first week, there was no doubt about that, yet Harry still seemed a bit on the fragile side. Dumbledore had felt a strong rush of optimism at Harry's smiles and contentment on his birthday, but after the vision about Florean and Daedalus, he knew what little ground that was gained, had already been lost. Harry's emotions were welling inside of him again, and Dumbledore knew that it would only be a matter of time before he had another catharsis. He was learning how to control his emotions in Occlumency, but Dumbledore feared that Harry was bottling his feelings outside of his lessons every day, instead of expressing them when appropriate.

As he glanced over at the boy, who was currently standing at the pool's edge and dipping a couple of toes past the surface to test the water, he was overcome with a surge of intense concern for him. Something was wrong. Something was happening inside of Harry, and Dumbledore couldn't identify what it was or what he could do about it. The boy was not all right; he had not been all summer. They would simply have to wait and be cautious.

He only hoped that the threat could be discovered before too long and before too much damage had been incurred.

* * *

Harry's body scooped over the waves as his piston-like arms propelled him forward. He could feel the cool water gush over his shoulders with each decided surge. The sunlight had finally radiated away the mist outside, and beat down upon the pool from the giant rectangular windows above. The glowing particles committed themselves to tribal dances in their beams on top of the water. He could vaguely see Dumbledore on the other end of the pool, employing the butterfly stroke. Harry let go of all his tension, his cares, his worries as he let his muscles do their work. The embarrassing events of that morning had evaporated from his brain. His whole world became his wind-milling arms and kicking legs, coasting him upon the water.

And then the world split.

Or so he thought.

A blinding pain enveloped his body, starting at his head, and he faltered mid-stroke. Surely he was dying. Hot fire coursed through his veins. His organs had melted, his bones squeezed to pulp. He kicked and flailed instinctively, trying to shake off the invisible beast that had him in its painful grasp. He felt his body tumble head over heels; he had no idea where up or down was. He was suspended in boiling liquid, smothering him.

His head must have exploded. He sucked in a breath to scream except warm water flooded inside his airway. Panic set in almost immediately. He jerked and twisted in response, now feeling an awful pressure constricting his chest. He inhaled again and another liquid gush poured inside his body. His muscles turned to limp rubber and his limbs stilled. As the pain continued to stab him, he felt his mind and body completely shut down. A sinking sensation became his only awareness and he opened his eyes only to see a carpet of pristine light dazzling over his head like glittering white stars, ascending farther and farther above him.

He tried to kick his legs, to reach the light and to breathe sweet air, but his body seemed to have gone numb and unresponsive. He allowed the sinking sensation to consume him. _Goodbye_, he thought, and tried to wave a hand in a last farewell to the sunlight, but couldn't. He felt his consciousness slip away like fading smoke.

And then there were strong arms that seized him around his chest and pulled him upward in a sharp jerk, towards the dazzling light. He felt too sick and weak to move or respond. Just a weak gurgle escaped his mouth once he felt his face break the surface. His lungs felt like they were filled with stones. Dumbledore propelled them both through the water, his powerful strokes sweeping them to the ledge. Harry felt himself being hoisted onto the wet tile. His vision swam; his heart and brain pounded in his skin. He opened and shut his mouth like a drowning guppy.

He felt like a disassociated bystander as Dumbledore laid him on his back and quickly ran the heels of his hands down his sternum. Then he pressed down hard several times in quick succession, and Harry could feel his ribs creak in protest. His lungs were burning as though they were filled with bile, and Dumbledore's pulsing hand motions were roiling the liquid. Harry felt a particularly nasty spasm seize his lungs and a warm surge swept up his throat. He distinctly felt himself being turned over onto his side and Dumbledore's hands supported his head as he brought up all the pool water from his lungs and stomach. He coughed wetly for several moments, sucking in great gulps of air in between his heaving shudders.

The fire still coursed through his body, centering on his scar. He tried to say something, but his voice sounded strange in his ears.

"Shhhh, Harry," Dumbledore soothed, his hand on his forehead. "Steady, dear boy."

But darkness came quickly and forcefully, swallowing him whole.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it despite the evil cliffhanger! I have already started chapter 9, so I can hopefully get that up and running before too long. Please let me know what you think about this chapter. I desperately need some feedback on this story! 

Also, on a side note, please don't ever try Dumbledore's version of CPR on someone. I kind of made it up, because Harry was still conscious and you're not supposed to do CPR on a conscious person. Yet at the same time, he was choking on all of the water inside him, so Dumbledore decided to help poor Harry out by putting pressure on his chest so he could clear his own airway.

Also, Harry's O.W.L's were taken directly from _Half-Blood Prince_, so there's no change there…

Finally, I'll ask again that you please tell me what you think of this chapter/story. And I understand that sometimes it's hard to think of something to say, but it is really meaningful to the authors, to know what their readers think. I never reviewed any fanfiction until I started writing my own stories. Then I really began to sympathize with other authors who are in desperate need of feedback. So any thoughts, ideas, suggestions would be fantastic! It doesn't have to be a long review, just a few words would be fine. And I promise to reply to your concerns (if it is a signed review, that is, because I can't reply to anonymous reviews, though they are still welcome, of course). A special thanks to everyone who has reviewed--I really appreciate your support! Thank you so much for reading, and take care!!


	9. If Only

**Disclaimer:** All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of J.K. Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

**Author's Note:** Hello, my loyal readers. You are all very dear to me and I must apologize for the long delay in the update to this story. I had a rough semester last spring, and an even worse summer, what with working 50 hours a week, taking summer classes, training for cross country, and burying beloved pets. Anyways, I am back at school now for my final year of college, and I am hopefully back on track to a better schedule, in which I can set aside more time for writing. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and please let me know what you think!

* * *

_Previously, in Chapter Eight…_

_He felt like a disassociated bystander as Dumbledore laid him on his back and quickly ran the heels of his hands down his sternum. Then he pressed down hard several times in quick succession, and Harry could feel his ribs creak in protest. His lungs were burning as though they were filled with bile, and Dumbledore's pulsing hand motions were roiling the liquid. Harry felt a particularly nasty spasm seize his lungs and a warm surge swept up his throat. He distinctly felt himself being turned over onto his side and Dumbledore's hands supported his head as he brought up all the pool water from his lungs and stomach. He coughed wetly for several moments, sucking in great gulps of air in between his heaving shudders._

_The fire still coursed through his body, centering on his scar. He tried to say something, but his voice sounded strange in his ears._

"_Shhhh, Harry," Dumbledore soothed, his hand on his forehead. "Steady, dear boy."_

_But darkness came quickly and forcefully, swallowing him whole._

* * *

**Harry Potter and the Time of Transition**

Chapter Nine

_If Only_

* * *

Harry opened his eyes slowly, the lids fluttering like tentative butterflies. Gentle and persistent fingers were rubbing small, soothing circles on his temples. He then realized that his body was damp and he was lying on wet tile. _Where was he?_

Understanding hit him suddenly as he recalled the scar pain and smothering water. He tried to move his hand, but both his arms seemed to be stuck to his sides. He wriggled a bit and then quickly saw that a fluffy, white towel had been wrapped tightly around his torso, like a straitjacket. His head also was pillowed on another towel, which was folded softly beneath him.

His motions must have gained Dumbledore's attention, for the headmaster's blurry visage loomed upside down over Harry's field of vision.

"Harry," he said, relieved. He patted Harry's jaw, while resting his other hand on his shoulder.

"Sir," Harry rasped and faltered as he felt a sick, churning sensation in his chest. It was as though there were eels sinuously swimming behind his rib cage. He winced.

Dumbledore's hand tightened on his shoulder in response. "No talking, please, Harry. There's still some water in your lungs right now. We'll get you into your bed in a few moments. You just need to lie still until Minty comes back with the potion…."

The headmaster's voice was low and soothing, yet there was an intensity and firmness underneath the calm. "Try to stay awake now…good…"

Those gentle fingers returned to his temples and Harry released a slow, rattling breath, wincing again. It sounded as though there were bubbles in his chest. He could feel the roiling fluid with each careful, tentative breath.

It was remarkable how one could take such a simple thing for granted as breathing. Even though each breath caught painfully in his chest and his throat burned as though it had been dosed with Firewhisky, each expansion/contraction of his lungs was proof that he was still alive. He remembered the terrible pain and the fear in the water, how his limbs thrashed heatedly, how his lungs had felt like liquid iron without any room for air. As Harry's lungs continued to work, he focused on the bellows-like activity within his chest cavity. He could almost imagine an accordion-like object squeezing out stale air, and sucking in the fresh from outside his body.

Sloshy footfalls reached Harry's ears as Minty's tiny feet slapped on the wet tile. A vial of whitish-yellow liquid was passed from Minty's delicate and nimble fingers to Dumbledore's long, strong ones. Harry looked on blearily as Dumbledore uncorked the vial hastily, jostling the viscous fluid that looked like thick buttermilk. He felt a hand gently grasp the back of his neck and press upward, tilting Harry's head back. The thick, milky liquid was quickly tipped into his rasping mouth and it coated his throat with its cool smoothness. A slightly rancid coconut taste stung his mouth and he rubbed his tongue against his palate to relieve his taste buds as he swallowed. Dumbledore lowered him down to his tartan pillow and placed a hand on his chest. Harry coughed a few times and then held his breath as a tingling sensation overpowered his lungs.

"Keep breathing, Harry," Dumbledore instructed, his hand pressing down insistently. "You must breathe steadily in order for the medicine to work. I know it's uncomfortable, but that water must evaporate from your lungs."

Harry did as he was told, wincing at the initial few gasps and then relaxing as the roiling sensation eased from his chest. A few moments later, the rattling sound ceased altogether and his breathing was clear and easy. Minty squeezed his hand briefly and Harry was grateful for her proximity because her peppermint scent felt cool and cleansing for his airway as he breathed it in.

Dumbledore finally removed his hand from Harry's chest and flicked his wand. Harry immediately felt a floating sensation cradle him as Dumbledore levitated him and directed him forward through the pool doors.

"I am taking you back to your room, Harry. I want you to remain in bed until dinner. I do not want you to tax your body, and especially your lungs today."

Harry gave a slight nod but didn't give a verbal acknowledgement. He just didn't feel like talking. He didn't want to disturb the peaceful, unstrained cadence of his breathing. He did not enjoy gasping and flailing like a fish out of water, as he had done near the pool. He did not want to press his body.

They had reached Harry's bed now and Dumbledore floated Harry onto the covers, terminating the levitation spell. He turned away from the teen and opened the wardrobe, fetching a t-shirt and pajama bottoms.

"Do you feel as though you can dress yourself, Harry? If not, there is a spell I can use—"

Harry flushed red and sat up, pulling the towel off him and reaching for the proffered clothing. His arms were shaking, but he was desperate to prove that he was not an invalid. He had had a terrible scare that afternoon, certainly, and he was slightly embarrassed too, and a bit alarmed at how consuming his scar pain had been. _What was Voldemort up to?_

Dumbledore had left the room as Harry changed out of his damp swimming trunks and pulled on the soft pajamas. The old wizard then returned, offering the teen's folded glasses out to him. Harry put them on gratefully, and searched his headmaster's face to see if he could gain any inkling of what the wise mage was thinking. Dumbledore's face had a few more creases lining it than Harry seemed to remember. The eyes were a little duller, the skin between the snowy brows drawn slightly in scalloped wrinkles. Harry could see the worry in his headmaster's face…worry for _him._ Harry felt his heart jolt in a sharp pang of fear. _If Dumbledore—calm, stoic Dumbledore—was worried, then this was really serious…_

"Sir?" Harry whispered, his heart hammering as Dumbledore slowly approached him and pulled a chintz chair up close to the bed.

"Harry?" he murmured softly. It was a reciprocal question, not demanding a response, more of a soft exhalation of pensive weariness. The blue eyes stared off into space. Harry reached over and tapped his hand against Dumbledore's arm rest, in an attempt to gain his attention. Dumbledore turned to him, patting his hand in reassurance.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asked, his eyes now keen and imploring as they evaluated the teen's features.

"Yeah, it's easier to breathe," Harry said, and then paused, not really wanting to say what was plaguing him, but too tired to clasp his feelings within.

"I don't know what is happening to me. I'm really worried, sir."

"As am I, Harry. But I can assure you that we will get to the bottom of this together and the most important thing you can do is to take care of yourself—eating and sleeping well—and to keep me informed of any dreams, vision, or scar pains you experience. I cannot emphasize enough how important this is."

"Yes, sir," Harry said. He felt as though he might as well tell Dumbledore about what happened while he was swimming. "My scar hurt in the pool. It hurt as it had when Voldemort possessed me at the Ministry."

"Did you have a vision or any correlating emotion when your scar hurt?" Dumbledore asked.

"No, Harry responded. "Just the pain." He looked away from Dumbledore and stared off into space. _Why was his scar hurting? Had something happened? Was the Order okay? Was Voldemort trying to possess him again? _He felt his heartbeat thud wildly, creating nausea inside him. His palms sweated from fear. Images flashed through his mind in a sudden torrent, a vortex of memories clear and sharp. He could see Voldemort in the graveyard, the basilisk sinking it's fang into his arm, Cedric dead, Sirius falling…

"I think I'll be fine by myself now, sir," he said, not wanting to reveal the turmoil within him.

Dumbledore nodded, standing up. "If you need anything, please send word with Minty. I will come to check on you before dinner."

As soon as the elder wizard left the room, Harry pulled himself out of bed and wobbled over to the nearby chair. He had to take his mind off of the vivid images flickering in his brain.

He couldn't sit idly and revisit these memories, not now! Remembering his assignment from Dumbledore, Harry sat down at his desk and withdrew a small roll of parchment from one of the drawers. He smoothed it out over the desk, dipped his quill in the ink pot and wrote

_70 Ways Voldemort can Hurt Me._

_#1. Drown me with scar pain._

His writing was interrupted by the sound of light, elfin footfalls outside his door. He dropped his quill, quickly throwing himself into his bed, knowing that Minty would not be pleased to see him out and about. He sank into the soft mattress, suddenly feeling tired and cold despite the warmth of the season. The little elf wandered inside and opened the curtains in Harry's room so that the warm sunlight bathed the room with its golden fire. Harry shivered and pulled the covers up to his collar bone. His mind felt blank and fuzzy; he wondered if he had received brain damage from his oxygen deprivation. He certainly hoped not.

The little elf perched herself on the edge of the mattress, staring at his wide awake visage, her head tilted slightly to the side, making her look somewhat like a parakeet. "Do you knows any bedtime stories?" she inquired.

"No."

She then opened up her mouth and chirped out a semi-long story that her mother used to tell her when she was a mere elflet.

Harry didn't say anything; he just looked away.

"Harry Potter shouldst sleep now," she said.

Harry shook his head, exasperated. "I'm not tired."

He continued to just stare off into space, mulling over the events of the morning. First the Ministry fiasco, and then the pool accident, and it wasn't even three o'clock yet! He wished that he wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived, wondering what it would have been like to have a normal childhood, with a proper family, and a normal education, with no scar pain, or people fawning over him, or politicians singling him out, and with no Dark Lords hunting him…

The self-pity and frustration continued to consume him, but he didn't try to impede its progress. He let it grip his mind and his heart. He hated his life, this stupid hand of cards he had been dealt. What a raw deal!

Minty grew impatient with his silence and insisted that if he wasn't going to sleep or talk, then they should at least play cards.

Harry's mouth twisted slightly at the irony of her suggestion, but then conceded to her persuasion. They played a few hands of poker, before Harry stated that he was tired and wanted to take a nap. The little elf had grabbed a book and settled herself in her chair. Harry turned over on his side, his back to her, and begged for sleep to come.

He wasn't sure at which point his wish had come true. He forced his mind to relax and felt a slight floating sensation seize his body…

The next thing he knew, he was in the Chamber of Secrets again and Tom Riddle was laughing. That high cold laugh was grating to Harry's ears. He ground his teeth together…_Here we go again…_

* * *

Dumbledore hunched his body over a thick tome, his crooked nose an inch away from the parchment. He turned the page to find a section titled _Rare Attacks on the Mind _and continued reading. After a time, he sat back and rested his fingers against his bearded chin. There were simply no certain answers to be found, regarding Harry's condition. Of course, there was no other person in existence who had such an unstable and reactive curse scar. The dark nature of the Killing Curse made the situation far more complicated and dangerous.

The headmaster was unsure as to how to proceed. Harry's scar was unpredictable and the pain associated with it was debilitating enough to make Harry completely vulnerable. He had left Minty to stay with Harry, telling her to let him know should the boy appear to be in any kind of discomfort.

He needed to consult the Order, and especially Severus. Were there specific activities of Voldemort's doing that were causing Harry's scar pain? Or was there something more sinister at work? Was Voldemort purposely sending Harry pain to weaken his hold over life? Was there a way to do that, without causing Voldemort damage as well?

Shaking his head with regret and worry, he turned to his fireplace.

* * *

Minty was sitting on his chest, her tiny fists clutching the collar of Harry's shirt. "Harry Potter must wake up!" she cried. _"Wake up!"_

"I'm awake, Minty," Harry mumbled, his voice sounding weak.

"I is getting Dumbledore now, and you is staying in bed!"

"No! Minty, please don't get him! I'm okay now, really!" Harry pleaded, wincing at how pathetic he sounded.

But she was already halfway out the door. She whirled around, and in a commanding, high-pitched tone, said "You stay!"

Harry lay back, and then rubbed his face on his sheet to wipe away the sweat that was gathered there.

He was slightly relieved that Minty had been there, to wake him up from the horrendous nightmare he had endured. It was like his worst memories were crowding him, and Sirius was there, his face devastated and accusatory.

"_It's your fault I'm dead," _he had whispered in a hurt and betrayed voice. _"If you hadn't gone to the Ministry, I would have lived… How could you do such a thing?"_

"_I'm so sorry, Sirius," _Harry had pleaded. _"I thought I was doing the right thing; I didn't want you to die!"_

But Sirius had just shook his head, his eyes watering. _"I thought we could be a family, and you had to ruin everything."_

That was when Harry had snapped awake. And now Minty was fetching Dumbledore and he knew he would have to explain himself to his headmaster. He didn't want to, not at all. Acknowledging Sirius' words would only make them more painful and true.

He could hear his heart thudding a wild tempo in his chest, and he tried to will himself to calm down, to relax before Dumbledore came into the room. He thought of peaceful things, of sitting in the Gryffindor common room, playing Wizard Chess with Ron, or of having tea in Hagrid's hut with his friends, while the gamekeeper enthused about his newest foreign monsters that he was avid about importing. He tried to hold onto these friendly images and feelings, to let the calm soak into his veins and soothe his throbbing heart.

But Sirius' devastated face loomed in his vision, with the presence of a storm ruining a sunny picnic. His Godfather looked so tortured, so betrayed, that Harry couldn't help the large painful lump that rose in his esophagus, as though he had swallowed a bitter chocolate frog whole.

At that moment, Dumbledore entered the room, his robe whisking in his wake. Harry didn't look at his headmaster, so ensnared within the images of his suffering, accusatory Godfather.

"It's all my fault," he whispered, staring at the coverlet.

"What is, Harry?" asked Dumbledore, seating himself on the edge of the bed now.

"At the Ministry…"

"I thought we already discussed this, Harry," said Dumbledore slowly. "What happened at the Ministry was not your fault. We had established that the Minister—"

"I'm not just talking about this morning at the Ministry," Harry replied, cutting Dumbledore off. He felt as though he had to get this off his chest; he needed to form his feelings into words and just say it. That's what Lupin was talking about—being more open. It was now or never, and as the headmaster's patient eyes studied him, Harry longed to break the eye contact and run out of the room. Yet he knew that the gnarled, ugly beast within him was going to shred him to pieces if he didn't reveal his dark worry.

"What happened this morning," Harry began, his heart beginning to thud a sickening banter that gave rise to goose pimples on the back of his neck and arms, "has shown me, confirmed for me…that…my biggest worry is very true."

His breathing increased and grew shallow as he struggled to find words that could accurately describe what he was feeling. "I mean that…that I keep rushing into things…and…and playing the hero..." His hands felt numb and cold, so he rubbed them on his jeans again.

He knew he wasn't being very coherent. He also became aware of the fact that his voice was becoming more and more strained and thin, as though his windpipe was narrowing. His whole face was prickling as though he had bathed his face with pepper. Dumbledore was still looking at him very calmly, his eyes gentle and concerned. _I don't deserve his sympathy_, Harry thought. He almost stopped speaking right there, almost rose off of the bed and headed toward the door. He fantasized about it for a couple seconds, but then quickly realized that his body felt so strange, weak, and heavy, that he doubted he could even make it a few steps without his legs giving out.

"I know now…" he choked out, gasping. Dumbledore shifted in his seat, his features creasing into a frown. "Well…I've known this for a while…but…that…I'm a burden…and I'm…reckless…and…that…"

He paused for what seemed like the millionth time, and tried to get a grip on his breathing, which was escalating to a near painful level. His lungs were clenching on the air like a desperate, starving animal that could not be satiated. _Squeeze it out_, Harry told himself. _Throw up your words_ _so you can breathe again._ He pressed on, dizzy.

"…That it's…it's all my …_my fault_…you hear me?" He looked imploringly at Dumbledore, feeling a fierce desperation intoxicate him. He had to make him understand, had to let another human being see a tiny fraction of the pain inside him. He felt a pressure on his shoulder and flicked his eyes to the left to see Dumbledore's hand fastened there, squeezing.

"My fault," Harry repeated. His face felt unbearably hot, an unnatural compression taking over his skin and his sinuses. His breathing was getting tighter and sharper. A tingled, flushed feeling, like slow, sick electricity seized his body. "My fault…about…about…"

He could feel his body respond to the oxygen debt. The room spun, the wooden paneled walls and pastoral paintings blurring into rainbow streaks of washed-out pigment. Harry felt his jaw go slack, and his mind screamed, _Finish it! Spit it out!_ "About…" Harry's thick voice cried faintly, and he tore his eyes away from Dumbledore, his head tilting back. He heard Dumbledore call his name, felt a hand press along the side of his face, turning it back to its previous position. And as his eyes locked upon Dumbledore's, he gathered the last wisp of air left in his lungs, and whispered, "…_Sirius_."

And with those words, wetness fell from his eyes and dribbled down his cheeks, as thick as warm blood. Though the pressure from his sinuses lessened, the pressure in his chest was incredible. His lungs stabbed for air, a dense, burning nausea consuming his whole torso. Harry took in a deep, sucking breath, and was alarmed by how little air reached his lungs. That first inhalation was strangled and choppy, the air emitting a grisly groaning sound through his pinched throat. He squeezed his eyes shut in pain and quickly exhaled that first breath of agony, hoping that his second inhalation would be better. He was drowning again, except this time he was suffocating from his emotions rather than water. He was aware of Dumbledore's hands clasping his shoulders, holding him upright. His voice rumbled something, but Harry's ringing ears couldn't take in the language. He tried to focus on the cadence of Dumbledore's utterances, though, and synchronized his breaths to match it. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably less than a minute, the iron claws had loosened upon his chest. His breathing was still a little rapid, but he was definitely taking in more air, and the cloudiness of his brain had mostly disappeared.

"That's it, Harry…Deep, big breaths for me…good boy." Dumbledore's hands still held onto Harry's shoulders, though not as hard as they had moments earlier. Harry opened his damp and sticky eyes and looked at his headmaster. He was surprised to see that Dumbledore's own eyes were wet and pained, mirroring Harry's distress.

A sudden, powerful emotion gripped him. He didn't know what it was, nor could he recall ever feeling it before. It rose up, warm and unbidden within him, like a dying bud reaching for golden rays. He felt so cold and lost and alone, yet Dumbledore's warm shining eyes held Harry firmly, keeping him from falling off the great metaphorical precipice that he seemed to be perched upon. Harry felt an intense upwelling of gratitude and perhaps affection for the kind mentor in front of him, not unlike the feelings he had experienced regarding Dumbledore's gentleness and empathy toward him after the Third Task. Harry felt an overwhelming urge to respond to this emotion, and he raised a trembling arm toward his gentle headmaster, leaning forward ever so slightly.

There seemed to be a split-second hesitation in the headmaster's eyes, almost as if he was caught off guard, but then he shifted his grip around Harry's upper arms and leaned toward him.

The next thing Harry knew was a sensation of being pulled forward by his shoulders. Dumbledore drew him tenderly to his chest and held him there. Harry's mind registered a brief moment of shock but then almost immediately relaxed. He could feel his headmaster's warm arms wrap around his back, not moving, but simply holding him in place. He didn't have to move or speak or think. He could simply rest here, cradled against this wizened mage.

He pressed his face in the thick, soft fabric of Dumbledore's handsome robes, the cotton cushioning his cheek, the silky strands of Dumbledore's beard tickling his ear. He tried to breathe in the warm scent of Dumbledore, to allow the dusty smell of crisp parchment and tangy lemon and earthy Earl Grey tea fill his nostrils and soothe his raw lungs. Harry felt as though his whole body was aching with his emotions, yet being carefully ensconced in his headmaster's embrace helped ease the sting from his frayed nerves. He went limp against Dumbledore's torso, just soaking up the sensation of a soft, warm body holding him, supporting him. This felt so comfortable, so natural. He felt safe, protected, understood, and most importantly…was he…_loved?_ _Was this what it was like to be held by your grandfather?_

Harry suddenly felt a bitterness surge within him. All those years that had passed without a comfortable, paternal hug. He thought about those long days of loneliness, of curling within himself, and hugging his wobbly knees in cupboard corners, of wanting something warm and soft and soothing, but not realizing what it was. He had missed out on so much…

"Harry," Dumbledore said softly and Harry pulled away, staring at his hands in embarrassment.

"Sometimes when unjustified events occur, events beyond our control, we feel inclined to blame ourselves. We feel so horrible about what happened, and we cannot understand the complexities of our world, the tangled threads of interwoven destinies, the indecipherable laws of the universe, that it is sometimes easier to swallow our own guilt, than to try to decode the circumstances and consequences of humanity's tragedies. But deep down, one must understand that nothing is completely one's own fault. There are chains of events, of parallel circumstances, that influence all actions and behaviors. It is impossible to know all of the causes of events, because there is more than one cause to any event. You cannot be held responsible for all. And trust me, Harry, you cannot claim responsibility for Sirius' death. A multitude of circumstances allowed for his death to pass, with the primary catalyst being Bellatrix Lestrange's curse. You are not to be blamed."

His hand wrapped around Harry's wrist. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Harry whispered, staring at the bedcovers. "But I don't believe it," he murmured in such a low voice that he didn't think Dumbledore could hear him.

His hopes were dashed when he felt Dumbledore sigh. He could feel the old man's somber exhalation through the warm, delicate fingers pressing his wrist.

"Harry, what can I do to make you believe me? Do you want to believe it?"

"Of course," Harry said, his voice trembling with a tenor vibrato. "I wish I could wake up in the morning and not feel so sick and heavy inside. I wish I could imagine Sirius as the happy, carefree person he used to be instead of the frightened, sad way he looked while he was falling through the veil. I can't stand the thought that it was my stupidity, my panic, my…God, even Snape was right about me…my _arrogance_…that led my friends and I into danger. I was rash—and I wish that I could take it all back and change that one day, that one decision to go to the Ministry. So I do understand what you say, sir, about the complexity of our actions, and how a chain of events follows all that you do. If I hadn't left Hogwarts, Sirius wouldn't have followed and he wouldn't have died. And I know that I regret that stupid choice every single DAY!"

His voice grew louder as he spoke, and it cracked into a hoarse choke by the end of his rant. He felt an overwhelming urge to get up and run, but he was very aware of Dumbledore's hand on his wrist, and he knew that escape was not likely. His nerve endings were charged, on fire, his throat felt swollen with clumps of grief, and he shot a quick, anguished look at Dumbledore, whose sorrowful eyes were swimming with glittering droplets.

"Harry," Dumbledore leaned forward. His voice was patient and gentle. "One can find guilt for anything by using the word 'if'. _If_ I had told you that Voldemort would falsely lure you, Sirius may not have died. _If_ Dolores Umbridge had not alienated you from certain Order members, Sirius may not have died. _If_ Kreacher had not gone to the Malfoys, Sirius may not have died."

"If I had only listened to Hermione, Sirius may not have died," Harry said.

"If I had arrived at the Ministry sooner, Sirius may not have died," Dumbledore continued.

"If I had tried harder at Occlumency, Sirius may not have died."

"If I had _taught _you Occlumency myself, your Godfather may not have died."

"If I had used the two-way mirror Sirius gave me, he may not have died," Harry whispered.

"If I had begun to show you earlier, the support and care that you need, Harry, then Sirius may have lived," Dumbledore said in a deep, soft voice.

Harry looked up sharply. For once, Dumbledore was not looking at Harry's eyes. Instead, his gaze was centered on a point on the floor. Harry felt sick, staring at his headmaster's burdened, defeated posture. _I'm not the only one who's suffering from this_, he realized.

"I don't blame you, sir. I don't blame you at all," he said earnestly. "I'm so sorry for upsetting you."

Dumbledore raised his head swiftly. "No apologies, Harry. You have nothing to apologize to me about. I hope you realize that with so many 'ifs' and 'if only's', it really is quite unreasonable to blame yourself for Sirius' death. He wouldn't want you to feel this way."

"But he tells me differently in my dreams."

Dumbledore fixed Harry with a concerned look.

"What happens in your dreams, Harry? What does Sirius tell you?"

Harry fidgeted against the backboard, feeling the curve of its cedar lip digging into the back of his neck. "He tells me that it's my fault that he's dead…that I was a horrible godson to him…stuff like that," he said in a quiet voice.

The headmaster leaned toward him. "That was not Sirius, Harry. The Sirius we all knew loved you like a son and nothing changes that. Do you understand?"

"Yeah."

"I am happy to hear it. One thing that we need to consider is the difference between dreams and reality. Lord Voldemort has managed to distort your perceptions through the connection you share."

"Are you saying that Voldemort was giving me this dream too? Even after the other one failed to kill me?"

"It's possible, Harry," Dumbledore said heavily. "Can you recall any scar pain?"

Harry bit his lip, thinking hard. "I think there might have been a couple of twinges, but nothing too bad. Maybe it was just my subconscious acting up."

"I, on the other hand, would be highly suspicious of any dreams that are accompanied by scar pain." The old wizard paused, rubbing a lock of silver beard between his thumb and forefinger, blue eyes foggy with distant thoughts.

"Sir?" Harry broke the silence.

"Yes, Harry?"

"There's something else. I—I think my memories are back again. I mean, they are clearer now for the first time since you hypnotized me."

"Yes, I suspected they might come back after the events of this morning and early afternoon. First, being accosted by large groups of people, and second, nearly drowning in my swimming pool would be enough stress to remove the unconscious block in your mind." He paused, looking at Harry with his X-ray eyes. "Do the memories bother you much, Harry?"

"Only a little, and not as much as they had before I was hypnotized."

"Excellent. We have succeeded then, and your Occlumency shields aid you in your control."

"But how come Occlumency hasn't been working very well against Voldemort's visions?"

"You raise a valid point, Harry. Can Occlumency work against such an intimate connection? Does it offer any protection, or do you simply need to acquire more skill and practice in order for it to be effective?"

"How can I get rid of this connection, sir?" Harry implored. He was suddenly curious about Dumbledore's reaction to his question. He could see the subtle flickers of emotion that flashed in Dumbledore's eyes. There was a deep sadness and…was that a tinge of fear? Then there was a blank covering, a shield of null emotion and guardedness.

"I am not entirely certain about the answer to your question, Harry," Dumbledore said heavily. "But it is an important question and I have been researching it."

Harry noted the tone of finality in Dumbledore's voice, and he knew that the subject was closed—at least for now. He couldn't control the wilting of his face, the crumpling of his body in defeat.

Dumbledore was speaking again. "I know that what you are going through is something unique and frightening, something of a nature that I cannot empathize with. But know that I _will_ research this thoroughly, and I _will_ do everything in my power to help you. Look at me, Harry."

His plea was a whisper. Harry looked into Dumbledore's kind eyes.

"Harry, you are a lion. You have strength and courage engrained within your personality. Sometimes a person encounters more stress than he or she can handle. Sometimes a person becomes lost and tormented…but what makes a difference, Harry, is that some people have the strength to pull themselves out of their misery. You have that strength, Harry. Though you may not see it now, know that you will get through this. And you will never be alone. I stand behind my words from June, Harry. I care about you, and I will do everything in my power to spare you from this suffering."

Harry looked at his headmaster, at those open and sincere blue eyes. He felt a warm relief fill his body. Dumbledore did care. He wanted to help.

"I cannot help you, though, unless you want to be helped. No, allow me to finish. You need to help me too, by being open with me and by taking better care of yourself. You have displayed an attitude of apathy toward your own well-being for far too long, and I am forced to intervene. I am speaking mostly about your lack of sleep and lack of eating. I do not know if you are aware that your weight loss is approaching a dangerous level. I understand that you have a lot on your mind, that you carry burdens that no one, and particularly no youth, should ever have to bear. I know that Sirius and the prophecy weigh heavily on your mind."

Harry flinched.

"But that is no excuse to neglect your health," Dumbledore said. "Yes, there are deep and dark forces at work with your connection to Voldemort through your scar, but not taking care of your own well-being is only making you more vulnerable to attack. I don't want to lose you, Harry. And nor do Ron and Hermione, and the rest of the Order. We all care about you very much. Sirius would want you to truly live, to flourish, instead of languishing in your sorrow and pain. I will help you, if you let me."

Harry bit his trembling bottom lip.

"_Will_ you let me, Harry?" Dumbledore asked softly.

"Y-Y-Yes," Harry stammered and buried his face in his headmaster's shoulder once more. He felt Dumbledore's hand sift under his hair, slightly damp with sweat, and stroke the clammy locks. "Everything will be all right," Dumbledore whispered and Harry could only nod into the soft fabric as he accepted the man's gentle comfort.

After a time, when Harry's grip on Dumbledore's robes had loosened and his breathing was much calmer, Dumbledore pulled away and told Harry it was time for dinner. Harry complied and got up from the bed. Dumbledore patted him on the back, but then removed his hand, seemingly out of respect, to allow Harry his personal space.

"Well, Harry, it seems that with all of this warm sunlight, you might be interested in venturing outside. After dinner, we could go for a little walk and I can give you a tour of the nearby countryside."

Harry nodded and said in a muffled voice, "Yeah, that sounds good."

And he followed the elder, tall wizard from the room.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, I hope you liked it! I know this one in particular was pretty angsty. I think that in some ways, I write angst that reflects that which I experience in my own life. Therefore, I find this fic to be fairly therapeutic. Anyway, please review. Your responses really keep me going and they brighten my day so much. I also use them to help improve my writing. Thanks again for sticking with this fic; I am forever grateful! Take care!

Kittyrunner


	10. Natural Remedies

**Disclaimer: **All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of J.K. Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

**Author's Note: **Alert the Media! I've posted another chapter! Well, I originally thought about labeling this chapter "About Time Kittyrunner Updated this Fanfiction" but it simply wouldn't fit. I know that I owe each and every one of my readers a sincere apology for the long delay for this chapter. _Almost two whole years! _I assure you that I never intended the wait to be this long, and also that I never, ever considered abandoning this story. I think about this fanfic at least five times a week, and I assure you that there are several reasons why I took so long to update. The biggest one was the fact that I did not have access to my computer for over a year. I had a difficult final year of college and an even more difficult first year in the real world. Things are slightly easier now, and I can assure you that Chapter Eleven will come out much more quickly.

This chapter is dedicated to all of my readers who have remained loyal over the years (okay, this is sounding a bit like Voldemort's speech to his Death Eaters, sorry), and to those who have sent their kind messages and reviews. You have truly helped me greatly and I really appreciate you all. I cannot possibly name all of you, but here are a few thank you's to **Gazlover12**, **ObiBettina7**, **restinpace**, **ILikeComps**, **Harry Albus Potter Dumbledore**, **ILoveHarryJamesPotter**, **77DMK77**, **GreenRider02**, **Lord Dingsda**, **charliecharlie**, **AmaterasuSpiritWolf**, **10****th**** Weasley**, **shadowsfriend**, **sssssnake**, **Bubble**, **jayley**, **transgressions**, **MARGEmuffin**, **Emma-girl**, **Randomchick16**, **Element's Sole Protector**, and **Rosaleen**.

And last but not least **little-starling** and **angelmoongirl**. Seriously, you two talented writers really keep me going. I cannot thank you enough for your support.

And now, onto the fanfiction!

* * *

_Previously, in Chapter Nine…_

_Harry bit his trembling bottom lip._

"_Will you let me, Harry?" Dumbledore asked softly._

"_Y-Y-Yes," Harry stammered and buried his face in his headmaster's shoulder once more. He felt Dumbledore's hand sift under his hair, slightly damp with sweat, and stroke the clammy locks. "Everything will be all right," Dumbledore whispered and Harry could only nod into the soft fabric as he accepted the man's gentle comfort._

_After a time, when Harry's grip on Dumbledore's robes had loosened and his breathing was much calmer, Dumbledore pulled away and told Harry it was time for dinner. Harry complied and got up from the bed. Dumbledore patted him on the back, but then removed his hand, seemingly out of respect, to allow Harry his personal space._

"_Well, Harry, it seems that with all of this warm sunlight, you might be interested in venturing outside. After dinner, we could go for a little walk and I can give you a tour of the nearby countryside."_

_Harry nodded and said in a muffled voice, "Yeah, that sounds good." _

_And he followed the elder, tall wizard from the room._

* * *

**Harry Potter and the Time of Transition**

Chapter Ten

_Natural Remedies_

**_"In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks."_**

**_ -John Muir_**

* * *

Harry followed his headmaster's graceful, loping strides through the tall grass. They were following the forest edge, which was bordered by a crumbling stone wall, about waist-high. The weathered rock had dull hues of purple, gray, and brown, all mottled and crusted with dirt. Damp leaves stuck to the rounded surfaces like leeches, deposited by the unforgiving rains that had fallen like pestilence from the week before. A plump hare fervently darted across the meadow, alternating between frantic sprints and halting into petrified stillness, its coal-shaped glossy eyes fixed on Dumbledore and Harry. Its tiny heart was throbbing in its chest so strongly that Harry could see the downy fur move with its cadence.

As promised, Dumbledore voluntarily let Harry outside for the first time since his arrival at Sugarplum Poplar. Not without a major stipulation, of course. The headmaster had insisted that Harry finish his entire plate at dinner or else they would have to delay their outdoor excursion for another day. Drained by the emotional events of the day, Harry wasn't really that hungry, but he forced his chicken breast down because he was simply that desperate for a change in scenery. He had placed a napkin on his plate to indicate that he had eaten all that he could, while surreptitiously blanketing two spoonfuls of peas that he was trying to hide from Dumbledore.

No such luck.

"_Finish your peas, please, Harry," said Dumbledore quite gravely, as he intently folded his own napkin._

_Harry blinked, feeling momentarily taken aback at how…well…_paternal_ Dumbledore sounded. For a second, he felt like he was Dudley at the breakfast table, while Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon encouraged him to take his second and third helpings. Not that Dudley needed much encouragement. Or extra nourishment, for that matter._

"_Would you like me to eat the plate too, sir?" Harry asked cheekily, as he stabbed at the last tiny vegetables with his fork._

_Dumbledore had looked up, the tell-tale twinkle in his eye. "Only if you think you can manage it." He sighed ruefully, "Sadly, there is very little nutritional value in the china, and you may require a stomach-relieving potion afterward."_

The flight of a magpie interrupted Harry's thoughts, bringing his mind back to the quiet, beautiful glow of a dwindling evening. The bird's ebony and pearl plumage glowed in the orange light of the dying day. "One for sorrow..." Harry murmured.

"Two for joy…" Dumbledore added, pointing to a second magpie that was perched on the stone wall fifteen feet away from where they stood. The headmaster's gaze was serene, enchanted, and engrossed by the beauty of nature.

Harry felt a smile twitch upon the corner of his mouth. With all of the war and suffering Dumbledore had lived through, Harry couldn't help but admire his headmaster's never-ceasing optimism. Dumbledore could always find the benefits within any tragedy. Harry supposed that perhaps Dumbledore's positive outlook aided his wisdom and powers of reasoning.

A wave of embarrassment prickled through his body. Dumbledore was so strong and thought so highly of Harry. Was Dumbledore's confidence misplaced? After all, Harry had fallen to pieces several times over this summer. He cringed, remembering how he had clung to Dumbledore like a toddler, how he had cried about his dreams…_what a baby_…

Yet at the same time, he guiltily remembered how he had enjoyed Dumbledore's comfort. He had felt warm and safe, ensconced in Dumbledore's embrace, with Dumbledore protecting him from succumbing completely to his emotions.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and then hurried up to keep pace with Dumbledore's graceful, loping strides.

Dumbledore made way along a narrow, beaten trail that led through a small copse of hornbeam trees, interspersed with purple beech. Since it was midsummer, their branches were laden with plump green leaves that left sunny dapples upon the flattened earth beneath them. Small, black beetles crawled along the aged trunks.

The headmaster narrated their trek through the faint trail, much like he had during the tour of the cottage's interior. He peppered his narration with plenty of anecdotes—"I would advise you not to climb any of these trees, Harry…I myself had fallen from this very beech tree and broke my left ulna when I was a mere boy of ten…And over here is something quite important…"

He led Harry along the perimeter of a forest of Elders, where he halted and turned to face Harry. "This is the edge of my property, and I would prefer that you not traverse through this wood. On the other side, about a mile away, is a Muggle town. Mind you, there are plenty of enchantments that prevent Muggles from passing this way, though I would rather you bestow upon them the same courtesy."

Harry quickly nodded his assent. "Sir? I've been wondering…Where are we? I mean, in Britain?"

"Dear me, I haven't told you yet, have I?" Dumbledore put his hand upon his head in slight bewilderment. "We are in the Lake District region, approximately eight miles from Ambleside."

"Oh…"

"Come along, then. There are more nuggets of excitement to discover on our walk! Aha! Here is an artifact of interest!"

Harry squinted his eyes at the sunny meadow at the gray and brown mass that loomed above the tall grasses that surrounded it. "A well…" he murmured.

The well was made up of smooth gray and black stones, with spongy moss creeping along the sides. A small, tiled roof hovered four feet above the lip of the well, an ancient wooden bucket dangling beneath. The rope was old and frayed, and interwoven with cobwebs. Harry pondered whether the rope was even strong enough to support a full pail of water. Fat spiders nestled upon the straw-colored strands, soaking up the last of the evening sun's rays.

"This was our family well," Dumbledore said. "My mother used to bring up water for her culinary and potion-brewing practices. As the years passed by, however, it dried up. Aberforth still used it, though. He would slide down the rope and dig out tunnels. Most of them caved in during an unfortunate miscalculation on his part. He was lucky to escape with his life."

Harry nodded and peered down the long pit. A draft of chilled air wafted up to him, rich with the scent of cool earth and rotted plant life. He could imagine the terror of nearly being forever entombed down there. He shivered and followed Dumbledore across the meadow.

Harry remembered Dumbledore mentioning his brother before, while they were in Hagrid's cabin in his 4th year. He had gotten the impression that Aberforth Dumbledore was a bit of a delinquent. But gazing at the well, he felt a twinge of pity for Dumbledore's brother. It must have been difficult having such a brilliant and accomplished brother as the Headmaster. Harry wondered if Aberforth may have felt overshadowed, much like Ron felt overshadowed by his own brothers. Harry halted that train of thought. Thinking about Ron sent a pang in his gut.

"What does Aberforth do now?" Harry asked tentatively, wondering if he was being too personal with his headmaster. _As if hugging him hadn't been personal enough_, he thought as heat bathed his cheeks.

"My brother mixes and serves a multitude of beverages, as well as arranges lodgings for varied clientele of a magical sort. A bartender, in other words."

"Oh," Harry said. Then he added hesitantly. "Your parents?"

"Deceased. A very long time ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Ah, nothing to apologize for, dear boy."

The tour continued, with Dumbledore leading them both tirelessly along a worn, dirt path which intersected a grove of densely packed trees, all entangled with ivy. Harry recognized the bird cherry, blackthorn, and hazel. Shrubberies sprawled between the trunks and Harry caught the scent of foxglove and heather on the sweet August breeze.

The path ran parallel to a stream that seemed to divide the property in half. Dumbledore paused beside a particularly grassy spot bestrewed with a half dozen boulders. Here, he indicated that they should rest a moment.

Harry sat cross-legged in the tall grass with his back to a boulder. Dumbledore sat across from him. They were silent for a time, simply listening to the babbling stream and melodic calls of the wild birds nearby.

It was Harry who broke the silence first. "Thank you for bringing me out here, sir. It's nice to get some fresh air."

"You are most welcome, Harry. I had wanted to bring you out sooner, but I was afraid of you straining yourself whilst you were still on the mend." His voice sounded regretful. "However, perhaps nature truly is the best healer of all. I encourage you to spend as much time out here as you like."

"Professor Dumbledore?" he asked tentatively, while twining a thick green blade of grass around his fingers.

"Harry?"

Harry raised his head to look at Dumbledore's face. The headmaster's undivided attention was upon him. His posture suggested that of a studied yoga enthusiast, his back straight and tall, his open, relaxed hands placed loosely upon his robed knees, feet tucked underneath him, belying flexibility of a much younger man. The tangerine sunset behind the mage set his silver hair aglow with an apricot hue.

Dumbledore's eyes were patiently inquisitive as they regarded Harry's conflicted expression.

"What would you do," Harry voiced slowly, as if he was carefully weighing each word, "if you were in my position?"

Dumbledore exhaled through his crooked nose and his mustache rippled slightly.

"Could you please specify for me, the position which you are referring to?"

Harry fidgeted. "If you had a curse scar, a connection with Voldemort, and there was evidence that Voldemort was using this connection to hurt you and make you weaker, what would you do?"

Dumbledore blinked, a hint of surprise in his eyes. "A good question, Harry." He paused, worrying an elegant finger over a grass stain on his silver robes. The blemish didn't seem to bother him too much; his face was serene and thoughtful.

"I would resist," Dumbledore decided at last. "I would do everything in my power to endure its negative effects, and all the while try to glean a greater understanding of the nature of this connection, and whether there could be any benefit from it."

"Is there a benefit to my connection?" Harry asked, dropping all hypothetical pretenses.

"No," Dumbledore answered shortly. "Any apparent benefit that came to light before…such as spying on Voldemort, having a warning bell to Voldemort's proximity, et cetera…all of these pale in comparison to the costs of having such a connection."

"Meaning…?" Harry asked slowly, his bright peridot eyes boring into Dumbledore's cerulean ones.

"As long as you are being harmed by this connection, Harry, I can see no valid benefits," he voiced firmly.

"Then I should continue to resist?" Harry asked. "How? How can I resist if Occlumency is not working? If…if I can't block out the images and the pain? I can't even _think_, let alone move when my scar hurts. It's so unpredictable; I have no idea when it's going to hit me! I almost drowned this afternoon! What am I supposed to do next time it flares up?"

Harry's voice rose to a near-shout by the end of his speech, though Dumbledore's voice grew even softer in comparison.

"I am working on it, Harry. I will do all I can to help you cope with both the physical and psychological pain."

Harry winced at the word "psychological". It made him feel like some kind of nut-case.

Dumbledore leaned forward and clasped his hand on Harry's bony knee. "You are not alone," he said slowly, emphasizing each word with tender care. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered. He felt really touched by Dumbledore's sincerity and reassurance.

It was remarkable how comfortable Harry was starting to feel in Dumbledore's presence. It was a similar ease that he felt with the Weasleys, with Remus Lupin, with Sirius…

A brief pang clasped his heart, and Harry savored it. It meant that Sirius' memory, his love, was not forgotten.

_Family_. That was the word that echoed in Harry's heart. Dumbledore and the others felt like family to him. The Weasleys, Lupin, and Sirius were like uncles and cousins…Dumbledore, like a grandfather.

Harry startled for a moment. _Did he just refer to Dumbledore as his grandfather? _He shook his head at the awkward thought. _He's my headmaster, not my family. He doesn't think of me that way, so I shouldn't either!_

Yet at the same time, Harry recalled the warmth in Dumbledore's eyes whenever he would look at Harry, the tenderness in his voice when he was being soothed after a vision, and the gentleness in his arms when he held him earlier. _Was it so hard to think of Dumbledore as a grandfather?_

He supposed the concept of family would always be foreign to him, as he had not been raised in the traditional way and never was able to experience the life of a loving nuclear family. Indeed, there were so many aspects of his own true family that remained completely intangible to him. He did not even know who James and Lily Potter really were. He only knew them through the eyes of others. How peculiar it seemed that his own parents were strangers to him. He furrowed his brow as he stared at his knees, trying to picture what life was like for his parents. He didn't even know what they did for a living…

And then the realization struck him that sitting across from him was a person who had claimed to know his parents quite well. Here was a person who had watched them grow up, who shared both their triumphs and tragedies. He was one who was not biased and limited in knowledge, as Remus and Sirius (being James' loyal friends) were, but someone who was an impartial judge, an onlooker, whose perception was tempered with generations of experience and wisdom.

Harry's voice rang out before his mind could comprehend the words forming on his lips.

"What were my parents really like?"

Dumbledore didn't look at Harry. His eyes were staring at a passing kestrel overhead.

"They were very much like you, yet you still stand unique from them," replied Dumbledore finally. "Your father was a confident, suave man who enjoyed adventure and laughter. He was like James Barrie's Peter Pan, if you are familiar with the Muggle story. I used to worry he would never grow up, but it was your mother who helped mature him. She brought out a tender, vulnerable side to him that I'm sure James didn't even realize he had."

His eyes fixed intently on Harry. "I know that what you saw in Professor Snape's Memory disturbed you greatly, but know that your father was not perfect, and nor was your mother, your godfather, Remus, nor Professor Snape. You saw a tiny fragment of who they really are."

Harry nodded. He would like to forget the crueler side to his father, and instead, try to remember his father as he saw him in the photographs Hagrid had given him. Over all these years, Harry had placed his parents on a pedestal. They were a perfect couple dedicated towards fighting the Dark Lord and they had sacrificed themselves so that he, Harry, could live. To see them knocked down at a more human level definitely affected him.

"Your mother, on the other hand, was quite the humanitarian," Dumbledore's voice continued, as Harry stilled his thoughts to listen. "She was kind, compassionate, and believed in the good in everyone. Yet she did have some fire to her. And wit too, oh she was quite clever, and comfortable with being cheeky to those around her. She was not afraid to stand up to people, no matter who they were…" Dumbledore's voice faded as he smiled softly in his memories.

Harry soaked up Dumbledore's words as a dying plant absorbing beads of water. There were so many questions flying through his head that he could hardly pick out a coherent one to ask about.

"What did my parents do for a living, after they left Hogwarts?" he finally asked.

"Both of your parents were inventors, Harry," Dumbledore stated. "I don't believe anyone has told you this as of yet."

"What did they invent?" Harry turned sharply toward Dumbledore, trying to digest this new information.

"All sorts of things," replied Dumbledore happily. "Your father invented many useful spells for Transfiguration, while your mother was highly innovative in Charms. I believe that her final project was devising a way to improve the Fidelius Charm. It was both ironic and tragic that she died before the work was completed."

"I always wondered what they did," Harry said softly. "I know so little about them."

He picked at another clump of grass. "Were they part of some kind of wizard business chain or did they do everything on their own?"

"Oh, James and Lily worked independently and separately from the Ministry," Dumbledore replied, a fond and faraway sheen in his eyes. "They didn't want anything to do with the corruption and power struggles at the Ministry, so they worked right out of their home. It was a fine partnership and quite convenient for them as well. They were quite happy."

Hearing about his parents made Harry's heart throb contentedly. He liked learning about them. It almost made it seem that they were still alive, and were simply gone for the weekend, while his grandfather watched him and told him stories of all the mischief his parents had once gotten into.

"Sickle for your thoughts, Harry."

Harry looked up to see Dumbledore studying him.

"Er…well," Harry squirmed uncomfortably. Dumbledore merely looked at him, his fingers creasing out a wrinkle in his robes.

Harry averted his eyes. He felt an overwhelming impulse to tell Dumbledore what he felt, but equally strong was a tenacious urge to keep silent. What if Dumbledore cared for him only as a student, and not like family? Would Harry's admission make Dumbledore distance himself again? Would Harry lose all of the trust and friendship he had already gained?

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head with a wry grin. He raised his eyes to meet Dumbledore's. A smile curved his face. "I just like hearing about my family."

* * *

Harry lay on his stomach atop his bed and brushed the silky strands of the feather against his cheek. It was approximately 9 o'clock at night. Dumbledore had finished the tour of his family's 50-acre lot about an hour ago and then left Harry to his own devices.

Harry thumped his leg on the bedspread in frustration. He supposed he should be more tired after the events of the day, but it was difficult for him to feel sleepy since he had already had a good nap during the mid-afternoon hours. He decided that now was probably as good a time as any to work on his project from Dumbledore.

_Tickled to death, _he thought wildly. _Voldemort could tickle me to death. _He didn't think Dumbledore would appreciate his sense of humor in his assignment…er…punishment. After all, he was supposed to be serious and thoughtful.

Drawing the quill away from his face, he scratched out, _"Poisoned pumpkin juice at dinner" _on the parchment.

He glanced at the title—_Seventy Ways Voldemort Can Make Me Snuff It_. "I'm on number 12—so far, so good," he thought.

Concentrating on the assignment was quite difficult, particularly since Dumbledore's words from the evening were spinning around in his brain. He was really excited to learn that his parents were inventors. He wished that he had asked Dumbledore more about it. What did they invent? Who did they invent for? Would he recognize any of their inventions? Perhaps they were researching how to make travel by Floo Powder less disorienting, or maybe…

He paused in his thoughts. Quickly, he dabbed his quill in the ink and etched, "_Burned to death by defective Floo Powder_." Beneath it, he wrote _"Sends me a poisoned letter through the mail." _

As soon as he had written it, though, his writer's block returned in full force, like a great wall of stone barricading his brain from his writing hand. He decided to take a break from his listing and to rifle through his suitcase for ideas.

His questing hands found the photo album that Hagrid had given him so many years ago. He flopped onto his bed, carefully easing his beloved album open. The spine creaked gently as he flipped the parchment leaves over, his eyes studying each moment that was preserved in the photographs. His fingers ghosted over the images as though they were delicate fossils, priceless relics that served as evidence of a lost time and place.

He looked at this photo album at least a few times each month, and each time, he usually had a new favorite photograph. The photograph that jumped out at him today was one that featured his parents in a little rowboat on the Hogwarts lake. They were surrounded by over a dozen other rowboats, each filled with Hogwarts students, fully garbed in their school robes. It reminded Harry so much of his own grand entrance into Hogwarts back when he was a first year; only this time, the students pictured were in their late teens. Many students were turned around, waving at the magnificent castle behind him, but James and Lily were staring forward, grinning at whoever was taking their picture. Lily's eyes were shining with tears, even through her smile. James had his arm draped casually over her shoulder. Harry surmised that this may have been his parents' last day at Hogwarts. Perhaps this was their graduation.

Harry wondered if he would even survive to meet that day. Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a spectacular send-off, surrounded by your friends, like a grand finale to an important chapter of your life? As Harry thought about all of his loved ones, he reached towards his desk, extracted his list, and began to write more…

Two hours later, a very satisfied Harry stared at his completed list and re-read some of his favorites: _Convinces wizarding population to hate me and a giant mob attacks me on Platform 9 ¾...Voldemort appears at King's Cross and pushes me on the tracks...Derails the Hogwarts Express...Sends a horde of Inferi after me...Possesses me until I am driven mad from scar pain... Confounds someone to put a Boiling Charm on the Gryffindor showers...Causes me to sleep-walk out the tower window...Persuades a jealous lover to murder me _(Harry chuckled as he thought of Cho. Nah, she wouldn't do that, really)..._Directs a meteorite to land on my head as I am walking down to Hagrid's...Hijacks the Knight Bus and runs me over with it...Lures me to Hogsmeade where he attacks me...Drives me insane from scar pain...Has Snape take me to one of his Death Eater meetings...Convinces Hagrid to introduce murderous beast at a lesson _(_Oh, wait, that's just about every lesson_, he thought)...and finally…._Infects me with an Anti-Coagulant Charm and I bleed to death after the next paper cut. _

Nodding to himself, Harry blew on the wet ink until the gleaming print faded to a dull coal color. Then he carefully folded it in half and centered it on the top of the desk. He had finished it a whole day in advance—Hermione would be proud. He glanced at the clock, frowning. It was 11 o'clock, too late to give it to Dumbledore. That was all right; he would just give it to him at breakfast.

Pulling his pajamas on, he fell into bed, barely noticing the tingling along his scar. His eyes closed and he knew no more.

* * *

Hours later, Harry sat at the elegant, mahogany table, watching the moisture from his fingertips leave crescent-shaped smudges as he traced them slowly across the veneer surface. His heart had yet to slow down. Though he did not recall the content of the nightmare, the aftereffects of the heightened emotion were slow to fade. Adrenaline singed his veins, leaving prickling heat. The hairs on his arms stood up and all vestiges of nighttime drowsiness were completely extinguished.

He didn't know why he had clambered downstairs to the dining room table at three in the morning. Normally he liked the soothing atmosphere of the parlor, but he was starting to worry that after being in the parlor so many times during his darker moods, the parlor may begin to lose its cheery effect on him.

A sudden gust of hot air fanned his hair and Harry turned sharply. A fireball blazed in mid-air before abruptly winking out, leaving behind an elegant scarlet bird.

"Fawkes!" Harry said, stretching out his arm toward the swan-like creature. Fawkes settled upon Harry's forearm and he guided Dumbledore's pet toward the table in front of him.

"Where did you come from?" Harry asked, massaging Fawkes' head. For some reason, it had never crossed Harry's mind to wonder what Fawkes did when Dumbledore was not at Hogwarts.

The bird chirped sweetly in his pure, clear voice that always soothed away Harry's worries.

A gentle creak in the floorboards caused Harry to look behind him.

Dumbledore was standing in the doorway, garbed in forest green dressing gown and nightcap, his half-moon spectacles reflecting the snowflake chandelier and Harry beneath it. His eyes looked tired, or maybe sad. Harry wasn't certain.

"I didn't mean to wake you, sir."

"Oh, you did not wake me, Harry," Dumbledore said matter-of-factly as he stepped into the room. "I, like you, sometimes rise from Morpheus' embrace when unseemly thoughts tickle my mind."

Dumbledore smiled gently at him. "Ah! I see that Fawkes has found his way here. I was beginning to wonder when he would turn up!"

Fawkes' head ascended luxuriously at the sound of his master's voice, then gave a melodic purr when Dumbledore stroked his neck.

"Where had he been?" Harry asked.

"Fawkes always comes and goes as he pleases, though he tends to stay nearby during the school year, in case I have need of him," Dumbledore replied. "During the summer holiday, he tends to explore. He has the endurance to circumnavigate the entire globe, if he desires to."

"But phoenixes have an additional sense to ours, Harry," continued Dumbledore. "Fawkes can sense when he is needed, for whatever reason, and then he always returns. And obviously, he sensed that it was important to come here tonight, which brings me to the reason why _I _am here at 3:17 in the morning."

Dumbledore slid smoothly into the chair across from Harry's and leaned forward.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I am," Harry said.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

"No really, I am. I just had a nightmare, is all."

"Scar pain?"

"Yeah, but I can't remember the content of the dream," Harry said hastily. And it was true, really. He couldn't recall any images. All he could remember were sensations, emotions, and perceptions. He remembered the feeling of stone beneath his fingertips, of sweat above his lip and along his hairline. There was fear, too. It was sharp and bitter in the dream. And there was a sense of purpose, that he was supposed to do something important and dangerous. It made him think about the Prophecy.

Dumbledore was still looking at him with those concerned blue eyes.

"I'm okay, really," Harry insisted. "I just have a lot on my mind."

Dumbledore nodded and withdrew his wand from his dressing gown. He flicked it and a tea tray with shortbread biscuits and steaming Earl Grey materialized on the table.

Harry gaped. "Did you just create that out of thin air?"

"That would be quite impossible," Dumbledore replied, as he poured Harry and himself cups of tea. "One cannot simply 'create' food. I merely summoned the necessary materials from the kitchen."

"Oh," Harry said, nodding his head in understanding. There were many kinds of magic that Dumbledore used which Harry didn't understand. He felt delighted that Dumbledore, as important as he was, would even bother answering Harry's trivial questions.

The headmaster poured an additional cup, setting it in front of Fawkes.

"Sir? Do phoenixes like tea?"

"Not to drink, dear heavens, no. Fawkes simply enjoys the scent and the warmth. Fawkes only eats food that which no human can eat, while humans only take nourishment that no phoenix will take."

Dumbledore said all of this very matter-of-factly, while plucking a shortbread cookie from the plate and nibbling it sedately.

Harry nodded slowly, quirking the corner of his mouth at Dumbledore's eccentric phrasing. He supposed he was quite used to the odd aspects of his Headmaster's personality by now. He remembered the first time he had seen Dumbledore on the night of his sorting.

_Nitwit…Blubber…Oddment…Tweak_

It seemed ages ago when he had asked Percy Weasley if the Headmaster was mad. Back then, things were far simpler.

"_He's a genius…Best wizard in the world…but he is a bit mad, yes…" _Harry recalled Percy's words. How strange it was to remember Percy as a Dumbledore-supporter back then, especially with his polar opposite attitude toward Dumbledore during this past year.

Mrs. Wealey's face flashed in his mind, grief-stricken at Percy's abandonment of his family. The pain, anger, and betrayal that he festered…that kind of wound wouldn't heal very easily.

"Professor?" Harry asked, raising his head to look at Dumbledore, who had been studying him carefully. "What ever happened to Percy Weasley?"

Dumbledore raised his snowy eyebrows. "After the events of last June, when Voldemort's existence was verified, Cornelius Fudge faced a vast wave of outrage and consternation that discredited him. His staff were re-distributed among various departments. Percy Weasley, I believe, was assigned as an assistant to Amelia Bones."

"Really?" Harry asked, surprised that Amelia Bones would take in someone like Percy. She was so logical and fair, while Percy was selfish and short-sighted. Harry couldn't help but feel immense respect and gratitude toward Amelia Bones. He truly believed that if it weren't for her, it may not have been possible for him to be cleared of his charges last August. He couldn't believe that his trial occurred almost a whole year ago. It felt like ten years had passed.

"Has Percy spoken with his family lately?" Harry asked, wanting to keep his thoughts away from the never-ending drain that was his 5th year. He sipped his hot tea carefully, while he waited for a response.

Dumbledore sighed. "Alas, he has not. Unfortunately, it is often in human nature that there is great difficulty in admitting error after one so adamantly insisted on being in the right for so long. However, I still have faith in Percy. When he is ready, he will reconcile with his family."

"Yeah, maybe it's a good thing that he is with Mrs. Bones. She might rub off on him."

A glimmer of a twinkle illuminated his eyes. "Let us hope so."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "It is very kind-hearted of you to be so concerned about the Weasley family, but something tells me that another matter is troubling you as well."

Harry looked up at his headmaster, admiring his intuition. Dumbledore probably knew already what was bothering Harry, and Harry knew that they really needed to talk about the topic sooner or later. But he was exhausted, and didn't know if he could handle the conversation on the horizon.

Yet he owed it to Dumbledore to at least tell him why he had come down here in the middle of the night. He couldn't get all sulky and withdrawn again, or else the little progress he had made with Dumbledore would already be gone.

He licked his suddenly dry lips, took another swig of the Earl Gray, and concentrated on the tiny whirls that laced the grain of the wooden tabletop.

"I've been thinking about the Prophecy," he murmured.

He paused, waiting for Dumbledore to say something, but the headmaster was silent, expectant.

Harry raised his head to look at him, but Dumbledore's eyes seemed momentarily distant before they settled on Harry. It was at this point that he realized that this topic wasn't just difficult for him, but for Dumbledore as well. The headmaster's eyes glimmered with an entire spectrum of emotion and pain, each whipping by and blurring together so that no distinct one could be isolated.

He frowned and was about to say "never mind," when Dumbledore shook his silver head slowly.

"My apologies if you misinterpreted my lack of response as a disinclination to have this conversation. I was merely 'lost in thought' as they say." Dumbledore's eyes crinkled in kindness as he gazed down at Harry. "Please continue."

Harry fidgeted in the hard, wood-backed chair. "I just feel so…I don't know…I was pretty numb to the whole prophecy business a couple months ago when you told me, but I had a dream about it tonight." Here, Dumbledore leaned forward in concern…" But there wasn't any pain, so I know it's just in my head and not a vision or anything." Harry babbled on, knowing he wasn't being very coherent. "I can't sleep now because I just feel so…so…"

"Anxious?" Dumbledore volunteered. "Frightened?"

He nodded. "And just…I don't know…helpless too. It's like I can't see how I'll be able to defeat him. It's like there's absolutely no hope for it. I might as well just go walk up to him and ask him to kill me now and get it over with!"

Dumbledore's eyes seemed quite serious and solicitous at the beginning of Harry's brief tirade, but now they seemed to twinkle slightly and Dumbledore's moustache was twitching amusedly.

"How is this funny to you?" Harry asked, surprised and admittedly a little hurt as well.

"Ah, Harry…Harry…" Dumbledore said, shaking his head paternally. "All of these feelings are quite natural. Believe me, had I been in your shoes at your young age, I would be experiencing quite similar thoughts and feelings."

Harry gaped at him, flummoxed. "But…so you're saying that I should accept the fact that I can't beat him?"

"Heavens, no, dear boy," Dumbledore said. "Quite the opposite. You are facing a tumultuous future, that is certain…"

"—future? My whole life has been rocky—"

"True, but I fear that things will only escalate from this current point in time. However, this does not mean that all hope is lost. It is normal to have doubts, Harry, but there is no logical reason for despair. You need to give yourself more credit. Look at your past history with Voldemort. How many times have you escaped him? It is not just 'luck' that has enabled you to thwart him on so many occasions."

Harry nodded his head slowly. A moment or two passed and then a tendril of a smile bloomed on his face. "I suppose I should hold off on surrendering myself to Voldemort."

"That would be most wise, yes."

Harry laughed. "Though, I admit, it's funny picturing the look on his face if I just walked up to him."

"I'm sure he would be pleasantly surprised, though albeit suspicious of a trap," Dumbledore conceded.

"Still," Harry said, "once he'd realize that it wasn't a trap and just my own stupidity, he'd probably thank me for it."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

"Or," he continued, spurred on by Dumbledore's skepticism, "maybe he'd even be merciful. You know, give me a quick death."

"I think you are being delusionally optimistic, Harry."

They both laughed then, and instantly, Harry felt the tension leave him. The butterflies stilled, and a pleasant sleepiness floated over him. The snowflake chandelier sparkled in gentle undulations. The darkness beyond the windows formed a protective mantle over the occupants inside. Harry blinked blearily.

Dumbledore scooted his chair back, the legs scudding across the wooden floor. Harry looked up at him and Dumbledore patted his hand.

"Bed, now," he said. "You need to rest more."

Harry placed his hand on top of Dumbledore's holding it there for a moment. "Thank you, sir," he said earnestly. It felt like the right thing to do. He hadn't felt this peaceful in a long time.

Dumbledore tilted his magnificent head to the side, almost quizzically, astonished by Harry's sincere gratitude.

"You are welcome, dear boy."

Harry rose and tottered off to bed.

"And thank you," Dumbledore murmured to the now vacant doorway, "for giving an old man some peace of mind tonight."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, I hope you liked it! Please feel free to hit the review button and tell me how you feel. I don't have a beta, and I don't let my friends read my work, so it's your feedback that helps shape my writing and inspires me to do more. Once again, I would like to thank everyone who still reads my work, and I can assure you that the next chapter will come out in a much more timely fashion!

Thank you,

Kittyrunner


End file.
